Wood, nut, bolt, bit, blow dusted-off stamens Bubbles clamped in metal molds, then nipped off Their blowpipe, still-red dustings of pollen Fused into a single tapering cough. A cough brings back company in carpels Fruits of our husked labour, planing the grain Of exotic woods, tongue-and-grooved gospels The chosen godspeed could never attain.