Since you remain reluctant, let us imagine
that one’s selfhood is a work of art — a maquette
in clay, as may be, and each life event
enacted by the sculptor. In he creeps
to the damp-room on his crepe-soled shoes
again and again. In time the work proceeds
via a series of flukes and inspirations:
the sculptor warms to his task; the clay responds
with little sucking sounds until it is wrapped
and laid for next time on its wooden shelf.

Nothing is done in that place that is not reparable.
Beyond the clayey dark your helpmeet is waiting.
And though his feet in the stiff grass ache with cold
he keeps, while he can, his faith; his night lamp lifted.