The Carpenter's Hands Poem by Mark Heathcote

The carpenter's hands are bleeding blood
His heart is a house made of sandalwood
He carves & smooth's it to fit a tawdry groove
A dovetail joint he shares with you. And, you approve.

But still, you complain his soul; it has a splintered-
Stairwell, where nothing ever is newly charted.
You say he gazes with knotted eyes spiraling outward
Into a space of stars, sawdust sutured.

His carpenter's hands are bleeding blood
His forefathers' arms cradled in a love-of-dust
He is now at a distance from the sharp end of the plane.
If only he could, uproot, uncouple one carriage of this thought train
Derail the distance in that discontentment, love, once again.

But still, you complain; his work has no honesty?
Or shame, she cries like a gull, whose ocean has no sea-wave.
His heart is a house made of sandalwood
Is but flotsam; is but some malnourished driftwood.

A splintered
-stairwell, where nothing ever is ever newly sculptured.