WENDER WELDS THE WAY

Wender welds the way
then cleaves, then cleaves.
Splinters hang from boughs
like outstretched fingers
to a child’s crinkled mouth.
He reaches upward and
this is a slight gesture
and he retreats from this
as if it were dust.
But he box-steps forward,
dim brown eyes downcast,
neither registering
nor registered in the way.

She leans aside:
her form peels from walls
and she drips paint -
what a mess -
across the marble floors.
Wender procures a mop
and mops the marble floors.
He follows behind her
in an adjectival fashion.
He would not do this
if he were a better wender.