Golem Crumbles

Sleeping under earth with miles of mire above Hand

A split sleeve spills out its arm next to a gloved hand.

A tire’s crunch takes black heed of the red-rubbed stone

That blinks beneath a hole shot through a dove’s hand

For what is a body outside its beloved skin?

A snarling rot--better to be a shoved hand

Into cotton casing like a lady’s glove whose

Seams pinch tight around the suggestion of Hand

I am not clay fed to life; I am a mud man

Plucked up whole and beating by God’s rough hand