our momentary babel

they let me use a screwdriver to take apart the set. I feel like a boy like someone they want to rely on. I work on bolts in different places: fake office tables monitors and platforms. our little world forged for fun for a moment now vacated for good. we use pliers to pull out the staples in the back of the throne. our momentary babel is torn with our own hands to scraps they'll use for something else. I think about the boards that made the desk at which I played under synthetic light wonder what was torn to build it how they'll next be used to shape another scene or set a funeral pyre. returning to clay at the end of the day we leave our tools behind. how many lifetimes are held by a tree? why must this matter less than me?

we mop and cleanse the stage of demons on our way out of the theatre. my bucket fills the colour of the mess we made. I watch it cyclone down the sink.