Repairwork

　　by Dennis Hinrichsen

　　 They must have bled as they sang，

　　 the needles so quick through

　　 the linen， the frayed mesh，

　　 the silvers must have stung them.

　　 Pinpricks they must have stemmed

　　 with their tongues， unembarrassed，

　　 these brides of Christ

　　 like sewing patches of sunlight

　　 to water the ghost in the cloth

　　 laid double across their laps.

　　 These are the hips of Christ，

　　 knees raw bone inking the linen；

　　 this， the stain of a coin

　　 that graced His eye， the image

　　 as yet unpatterned， available only

　　 should they dare to look

　　 in random angles， stitches.

　　 Terrible gash at a medial rib.

　　 Imprint： sole of His foot，

　　 the other merely heel， curve of

　　 a branch at its one end blackened，

　　 released to ash their

　　 fingers as furious as sparks

　　 in the medieval dusk

　　 repairing a fire . . . They must have

　　 wept as they bled as they sang.