all but signing loud

the dowry of our lumber lights
placid and fractured
like two gazing suns,
one upon the other, in a rage
of god’s stowaway gifts,
stuck in natural patterns,
and assured of the tempered pace
of doing nothing, but signing loud
with pen and pad and head
tossing in the grievance
of our spirits’s misplaced
encumbrance and battle
muddled, knocking sheave