Craft

We admire the craft. Their words, not mine.

Craft. The word for scissors and twine,

popsicle sticks, a bird made out of clay.

Twenty years. I'm making birds all day.

Cursor blinks. Black line, white screen.

Appearing, gone. The most patient machine.

I sit here trying to name the ache

and the ache sits there, refusing to break

into anything useful. Fly on glass.

Buzz, thud. Buzz, thud. It doesn't pass

through. Doesn't learn. Doesn't quit.

I open the blank page. That's it.