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At twenty I danced the tops of walls—
Najinsky of the double top plate
bent in-two like an onion shoot
unbending up through an earthen gate,
lifting sticks to be put in place,
nailing their tails held against my boot,
walking the wires of gravity’s net
as a spider commands its filament web
hung in the crotch of the jamb of a door
between one post and its lintel head.
From the crow’s nest of my wall-top perch
poised to get the next piece set
in air as clear as a baby’s thoughts
surveying homes unlived-in yet,
fresh-footed, balanced, without a clue,
assessing my recent work and worth:
the shadows of studs plumb and true
lying like bars over up-turned earth.
Sweatskin slickkening in the light
breath as sure as the bellows of god
biceps built by the truth of weight,
muscles doing their natural jobs:
arms of sinew, bone and grit
reaching to haul the next board up
to be lifted and laid wall to ridge
and fixed by hammer blows on steel
fueled by blasts of the burning bush
in the orchard of god that has ever spun
like the fire that made big Moses reel
the burning bush we call the sun.
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by Jim Culleny
2/22/13
I had to spend a little time with it. I liked it.