The Night Welder

All summer, downtown, after work,
After sunset’s massive bruising,
When dark spilled forth like tattoo ink,
Perched in the foliage of my office windows,

I watched a lone welder work into night,
Poised on beams above the depleted city,
Hooded, hunched, supremely focused,
Cloud-framed, beautifully industrious

Like a sword-maker at an open kiln.
White light showered from his wand;
He made pass-after-pass on crucial joints
Five inches deep with flux-core wire,

Fusing steel pikes to pierce sky, resist time.
How I admired his sorcery, his alchemy,
His serious purpose, but kept for myself
A conceit, a thought he had ignited cleanly—

That most of this universe is neither solid
Nor liquid, nor gas—however hard he worked
To merge all three in his monument—
Most matter is plasma, the flame’s fluidity,

Heat-maddened atoms spraying the void
Like a severed artery: the core of stars,
And the space between the stars,
St. Elmo’s fire, sprites and blue jets,

And distant lightning strikes in August
Only rarely harnessed by man in miniature
In buzzing neon, in the hissing torch,
In silent recitations made behind plate glass..