Skinny White Kids
Mark Huband

The Craftsman

An edge smooth as breath
curves the bough he planed.
Once or twice he drained
its blood, when his faith

coiled its mesh knot
and bound a promise
to the mouth-soft kiss
time’s hewn grain forgot.

Still, he remembers
the simmer of milk,
and night wrapped by silk
among glass embers,

molten when he woke.

Now, day is smoke
across the rooftops,
and autumn’s new rain
silver night’s last drops.