Apprentice

He saws with the rhythm of a cellist,
the flesh of wood
bleeding minor chords.

Screws crunch in his hands,
pirouette and fade with a splash
of dust inflating his nostrils.
The plane unzips tight curls
like hair on a barbers floor–
it cannot be replaced,
there is no margin for error.

This is why he will never let me
drive a nail,
chisel a thread,
cut as much as a cube of cheese.

A hammer in a bottle factory
must lose its weight,
learn not to fall,
to lean or angle.

If I hold my breath for long enough
maybe the stars will come out,
and we can all go home
without breaking glass.