Nails split, he cups

his hands to his chest,

hides the seams that cross

his palms, scar-lines

of labors for his father,

chunks sorted, braces built.

He clenches his hands

like tree buds—never open,

always spring. The space

inside them, so near his heart,

must be holy—formless, empty,

dark as cave streams, sump

pools, the face of the waters

where the spirit broods

before it calls out the light.