The Sculptor

I walk on the bridge between your eyes
and stumble over branches on the railing.
The heavy lumber is thick with overgrowth.
Too many weeds spread onto the bark.
You’d cut your hands if not careful. But you are
so your hands are smooth during the burden of work.
You want to work. You want who touches your hand
to feel you have made something, to have been
a part of something, if not revolution. You are
a smoky rotor churning out how to be
forgiven. You are the steel in the sound,
the righteousness of summer. Windmills spin
in perpetuity– the chisel rests.