the architect

For Pat M.

His dreams are built against the grain,

Washing rain water into oblivion.

Drawing himself, he became

Steeple bells mid-ring, funerals

Unspoken. The architect builds graphite

Walls into the sand, and prays

The water will not rise too far.

Your ribcage cathedrals over me,

Your lungs expand, contract -

Great gothic bellows. Your heart

Beats, pumps life into our veins. Your eyes

Wrinkle with salt

And sand. Sleeping, you resemble

Pilgrims shuffling towards Jerusalem.

History has made marks on you,

Burnt into your hands

And wrinkled in your eyes.

Solomon dreams inside your hands,

Into every unbuilt church you scratch

Ancient sounds, smoke that drips and pools:

Tradition.

This is where your heart beats,

The active stone Pulsing with the past

A bastion of spires and pediments

Roots that hold the dark

Disintegrated

Earth in place, a great tree holding –

At least for now – the end at bay.

-Michael forsyth