the day has worn me
i place my hand on the beam
of this attic room
and imagine the wood
split from a ship
broken
to frame the land
delineating
ours
from theirs
unlike the strut
we saw in the abbey
constructed
as a joke
an insistance
or both
suspended by the beams
it purports
to support
winking the sliver
of air at its base
like god
not quite
touching
the earth
Filed under: free verse, antiquity, continuity, God, poetry, posession
