The Tower

by matt_mcl

for Tom

My angel, if I were an architect,
I'd build a heavenly tower unto you,
throw out my hand, and fling it to the sky;

wade into the saint lawrence from the island,
grab water, let it fly into the wind,
and trace my spirit-soaring thus shown forth.

It would go up - take skeleton and skin
of steel and stone, ascend, the gorse of beams
of the top stories built would smooth and taper

it would be windowed, carpeted and plumbed
wire-enervated, painted, fixtured, hinged,
then it would blossom open (like my soul)

and it would stand there in the human city,
be bought, sold, occupied, worked in and used,
blend in and stand above, be in, contain

they would not know, nor have to know the truth
although the story, cornerstone, and plans
would say to such a one as thought to ask

"I, who was got to build this tower, prayed,
professed, and drew alone for him I love -
Its only consecration's to his heart
Who moves me to fling towers to the sky."