Ora et Labora

blank stares, faces of oxen and land bewildered
in Time’s bitter unfolding against itself, drowning
all tears,
a river of brick and want and sorrow.

this is a voiceless clamour,
a daily tail dragging leprous rock and sweat
gathered by four angels and four winds

upward. inward, to spirit, Spirit whose moans
caress the earth and beg its beginning
flesh, a work absent quarry and colony—
the removal of stones from death’s memory.

‘here, here, this is to pray:’
speak ending and saint and namelessness,
‘not at (un)doing’s end, but as
doing/’s wine and return and garden.’