What is my medium:
a block of wood
carved by
what other people saw.
Overwrought by eyes and
lathe-workers thumbing me
through the small pinch
of what remains.
I don’t claim to have the right
way to dislocate
all the barked ideas
what it is to be human. Any body
knows the false mystique of I’ve got this
and you’ve got that.
My students teach me
about paradox.
It’s a box made of wood
from downed trees,
metals slimy as money
from motherly layers:
human labor,
and ocean waves.
Why are you here?
I don’t want to hand you
beauty and seduction.
We’ve done that long enough.