Parable With Broken Frame
An old architect at a littered worktable
by John Peck
sits through morning, eyes fixed on ocean,
intent through evening at the study window,
motionless though his hand rebuilds years.
Down razory defiles to the rockledge landing
stands of flittergold awash in wind,
and through soft lolling labia of the waves
tiny boats coming in, setting out.
Priest and corpsedresser begin the climb to his house,
their empty craft nibbles at spindrift.
A bridegroom and his man steer for the islands,
plinky music unrolls with their wake.
A last stone has been set in place, final tile,
the bride folds her face in streaming hands,
a black duo mounts to the door and goes in.
All of these I have been, none holds me.