Porcelain,

A feat of breathless repose,
frozen in flight -- your opalescent demi-gloss--
I wish they could bottle this feeling so I could 
have a dose at a time that would let me keep my breath.

Glass,

Stained pure fervor against the window,
filtering the light of your god into mine;
Infectious red, framed with lead
or a noble blue, concealing daggers
of sin in this holy sea bedside table.

Wood,

The veins of a free man, pulsing outwards
from the center of the earth -- the manic switchboard operator.
We've got a thousand hands, but are always one short.

I'm one short of reaching you, so as man builds up, I build with him. 
Collectively, we search,
to disprove all the miracles there ever were
burn down all the forests, looking for you
until only the ugly, charred truth remains.

Maybe in the middle of it all, we'll find you, shining through the soot.
Porcelain.