Sculptor’s workbench
An old iron C-clamp gently
tightened on a stone – pressure
incremental, compelling, a first
small crack – lightning fissures
the grain but it holds in one place,
force resisted, objects immovable
save for rasp and file. Like that clamp
my vice (stubborn pride) the vise that
holds self immobile, grip making a
forceps-baby’s indentations as time
hones and chisels, curls shavings off
what I know, who I am, essentials whittled
small enough to slip the vise, everything
else in paper-thin drifts waiting to be
swept from the floor.
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