After Campbell McGrath

We construct it from water and motion and breath,
	smoke, tremors, tongues
	of fire, desire to live between
the growing distances of the stars.

It is, for all its freedom and aspiration,
	an artifact of human agency—
	the universe become conscious,
poured into cracked urns of flesh.

Its insistent voice mirrored by a hungry ear,
	like the lesser light that rules the night
	reflecting the ancient of days. Old
as the odor of resin-soaked wood on the pyre,

dancing to blood-orange flames,
	fashioned from the atmosphere,
	dark matter, energy, air,
shaped and assembled deed by deed,

and finished with feathers of ice.
	We build it on a loom that turns
	straw thoughts into golden bullion,
then lock it in its chest and hope it can save us.