There is the work and you go back to it.
Sometimes it is a picture
and you are the frame.
You are the hanging part.
You do all the holding.
Only the work shows.
People
point, smile, comment.
No one sees you.
Only the wall knows you're real.
No one looks for you.
Hardly anyone notices the wall.
Still, the work matters.
Sometimes you are the clay
and
the work shapes you.
First touch is often cold,
then hard, then soft and warm.
The bending hurts.
In
bending you forget who is who,
what is important.
In order to remember
you allow the work to move its fingers.
You let the work press into you.
With each flinch, the work scolds.
Maybe
you lose an eye,
the partial use of an eye.
Over time the work creates a better eye.
In time the days relearn you.
Whenever you speak, your tongue gets in the way.
Whatever you say about the work is never true.
Whoever you tell will quickly learn you're a liar.
The work will make you one.
The work will break your heart.
How else?
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