stage

When--the sawdust falls
through the sun, and the
radio plays--this song,
in particular--

and the wood hangs against
the wall, the office in the loft,
is dark, and slats

of metal over the loading dock,
are raised, the screws sink,
into the pine, imprecisely--

the stage is still, but won't be
in a few days, and the dirt
clings to my hands which are
sinew--

--with lifting, the strange slats
stacked on the platform over
the scroll-saw, and the welder,
and steels lies, traced in paint,
and dust, on the concrete--

--the leftover scenery, cut and
shortened, repainted--
will make a new world, for
an evening--beyond the loading

dock, the lilac are blooming,
but in here, I will cut a beak,
into plywood,

tomorrow it will break your
heart, today
the curtain rustles, slowly,
in the heat