Wood, nut, bolt, bit, blow dusted-off stamens
Bubbles clamped in metal molds, then nipped off
Their blowpipe, still-red dustings of pollen
Fused into a single tapering cough.
A cough brings back company in carpels
Fruits of our husked labour, planing the grain
Of exotic woods, tongue-and-grooved gospels
The chosen godspeed could never attain.