This is a Grace Before Meals where even
the pattern on the dinner plate gives thanks
and the tidy iron pot is filled to the brim
with a succulent casserole, or licked clean.
All that remains to iron is the tablecloth.
He sustains his own head in his two hands.
We are given this trellis to help take in the sky.
The body by the soul cannot be kissed
without one voluptuous lip, at least.
In the absence of birthmark, face, fingerprints,
by the pattern of purl and plain stitches
in his crew-necked jumper, he will be known
to the one who listens for his hand on the latch.
The grain of the wood in a kitchen chair,
its struts and uprights and dovetail joints;
the sitter’s wrists crossed as if to accommodate
the nail that enters and leaves by his watch face.