This next poem is called "The Carpenter."
And I guess the only thing you should know about the poem
is that my wife kind of follows my writing,
and she can look in the workbooks
and on the worksheets.
And one day, it suddenly occurred to me
that I hadn't written a love poem to her in a while.
And so I decided to set up--
create a setup, and I was going to start writing the poem
very slowly that she could look at.
But she wouldn't be able to tell it's for her,
and it's a love poem.
So with that, that's essentially all
I'm going to tell you-- that the poem is
going to be a love poem.
It is a love poem.
It's just in a lot of parts.
"One, I look at my hands in a dark hour.
They are my wife, another life, fawnal, explicitly made.
I compare responsibility to journey.
They are pitch black, whirling in the outside world, left
behind like a native possessed.
Two, we are older.
Toil is our long way back home.
It works, causes the space to beat like a heart.
It's a part of the poem that appears,
and appears on its own.
It goes on on its own, mystical as evil,
but it is called freedom.
Three, I'm sorry.
I was telling you about my hands, how well we are married.
It follows, I recognize all truth as some part of 10.
Spirit is my thumb passionately.
Without thumb, I would be nothing.
I have met some who believe in reason.
They have had too much wine, confess cause and effect.
It has been painful.
Four, I told you, it is unreasonable.
I guess I should say here, I am your carpenter.
Ethically, dark wood is my life.
I could show you my story better sanding.
Then when I speak, you would hear, Africa, Africa.
One more thing, my love, I have discovered
in this dark wood a skill you have called our loneliness.
I sand it down for you until our bodies fall off."