The sculptor must’ve felt
quite rushed while shoving
glass panels between crumpled paper,
like cold cadavers
packed into a furnace. Perhaps
he’d just realized he was late
for a lunch date
while shelving the dusty books
sideways and backwards,
stacking sheets of ash
this way and that. Maybe
he was tired
from welding the iron frame
the night before,
still upset
from rigging the wires
faster than he preferred
to meet a deadline. For surely,
he did not set out
to create a ten-legged beast
puking its teeth
onto a museum floor,
or a wall of garbage
to loom over guests
in marble rooms. No.
It’s more likely that
upon realizing what he’d done
——inadvertently rebuilt
the Holy of Holies——
he fled the scene. He
sought the closest exit
past the coat closet
down the hall, daring not
look back
lest he turn into
a pillar of salt.