songs of robert the cutler

from the darkest hull of the head

from the cold light of day's contradictions

from the high hills' rhythming contours

from the dull earth's heaviest ores

from the loud mouth of the forge

from the brazier's fiery barrenness

from the charcoal's black heart

from the flames' transfigurative lips

from the crucible brimming with speech

from the smoke's vernacular chaos

the maker divines and conjures, lures

from dross, its vestigial urge to prophesy

from metals their consent

from lead's inertia, its shapeless inclination to escape

from iron's reticence, its epics

from mute alloy, its murmur and ballad

from silver's silence, its definitive song

from the self-absorption of gold, its gushing circumlocutions.