A current pushes through the studio

displacing many pinned papers (sketches,

a few poems). The gallery was like this once,

all potential. I remember Lucia’s game,

I’d have to guess the words she’d hum into

her empty apple juice bottle. “Leaf “ or “Crayon.”

I shake the handle of many locked doors looking

for surfaces to carve on—resolved to cut

the paper into thin strips. It leaves marks

on the worktable, many intersecting lines.

I’ve been developing a series of casts

of the bottles dug from the yard, varied in form

and hue. I paste paper segments to the glass

(establishing layers, reinforcing corners).

The paintbrush deposits traces: streak

of ink, long strand of hair. The shrouded

bottle gives the impression of a unified

thing, paper clinging to the word “tonic.” I must

score down from throat to base to wrench the halves

apart. This mending sensation recalls

a process other than construction or design.

I position the pale doubles on rods of lead

reaching out from the huddled bottles, defining

the space between: irreconcilable,

necessary. Some bend or break in the room’s heat,

my smallest one sways back and forth, stilling

for a moment before rocking again.

I brush them with a little adhesive, so sweet,

my fragile objects, sleeping in a pile.

In the corridor I pause and turn around,

noiselessly crack the door ajar to confirm

that Small Cylindrical is still breathing.