Canticle

This too, in the joints, in the rot of creation follows: symmetry;
to wear eyes atomic as the ribs of leaves.
You come and the rib is split; feuding sight in a nest of thighs.
Sing! The magnet and hone of hands made in making the
inner; the tabulator of sanction avowed or denied.
As a bird in the pulse of its breast hammers the rain, this
trick of the outside armours the womb.
To see water as a door and watch the donning of a name,
the steel of the sun enjoined magnetic in envy of man.
Over your back and in your mouth, the banner of the month
comes cool as an eggshell on a ground of lapis.

© Jamie Bradley