I've never read this one.
So I think I have three more, two more.
Maybe three more.
"Woodshop."
"Bread, boxes, bald eagles, butterfly shelves,
eyeglass holders, dollar signs.
Straight back chairs, nightstands.
In certain spaces, that air is wood
sunk into a refab factory floor over a drain painted white.
The hope for its boys painted shut, .elow the overhang pipes.
It rarely breathes.
Their faces hollow and low.
They sway.
They grab one another's fists.
The way they spread and flay like nothing is coming.
No saw, no sanded dust.
How often the safety glass, or the rusty emergency
rinse this place linger.
Her feet don't touch the floor.
Their bodies hand off space, carved into square shelf
and buffed into corners.
Braces, jewelry boxes, unfinished guitars,
cutting boards carved with snakes, windowless cars,
boat bottoms.
This is not the way the saw should move.
The whole class wants to make a bed frame.
There's plenty of muscle.
Coat in the back.
When you pull it up, lock it.
Someone lost a finger once.
If it creaks, it's normal.
The gulch gets curved like the flow of a neck.
Soft spots in a weak wood.
Here light can't bend, so don't scream like you're drowning.
Anyway, no one's back here anyway, seep.
The three stream of wood is like an embankment.
It runs out there.
Exit marked, but the light is broke.
What if we tell them you can't swim?
Some of the boys skip, excuse me,
students, to get away from here.
God knows where.
Sure any one of them would be happy to show you, all of them.
She is her bits.
She has balsa in a frame.
A box, a dowel, to a drowsing oak beyond the cinder.
Tender mostly, the spinning saw.
She parts them.
Heat, hangers, sundials, locker mirrors, butter knives.
Each hour as she attends."