Sifting beans for stone,
Praise thee this work of our hands.
Pluck Pinto from sediment,
Calico from jasper, Kidney from bone.
And Praise taps run dry, lament thus
the last drop clung to the rim, suspended
Roman and hung as promise, as shrivelled
Grace before a dry thick tongue.
Don Sunday’s pleat to the river,
kneel there and Praise gray the water
that slinks around a bottle,
dipped and now come slow-full to Holy.
Praise, too, the mud on wisped chiffon,
crisp gabardine, pressed as scripture,
as covenant with all that passed before ease,
all that knelt thirsty beneath a yoke.
And bless the strained clavicles
that with each long stride stings,
as beans need water, need time
To plump and rise.
Praise then dry tinder and litters unmoulded,
as fire comes not from the range,
from the coil, but from the spark of frictions,
ne’er fictioned unto God.