Golem Crumbles
Sleeping under earth with miles of mire above Hand
A split sleeve spills out its arm next to a gloved hand.
A tire’s crunch takes black heed of the red-rubbed stone
That blinks beneath a hole shot through a dove’s hand
For what is a body outside its beloved skin?
A snarling rot--better to be a shoved hand
Into cotton casing like a lady’s glove whose
Seams pinch tight around the suggestion of Hand
I am not clay fed to life; I am a mud man
Plucked up whole and beating by God’s rough hand
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