Working Leather
The sweet, dead myrrh
of new cowhide
never ceases to please--
it is palpable, tempered,
clay to touch, a naked
casing of imaginings.
We moisten it, make it cool
to cheek, dry it to immaculate
canvas, a pale flesh
of flame and warm breath.
Gently, we mallet it to meaning,
carve it to incandescence,
an unspoken speaking.
It is indigo water
in crackled blue vases
on sun-brimmed afternoons.
It is contentment
of satin skin, beveled roan flower--
a poem at tongue’s edge.
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