I was walked through corridors
of hardened steel, floating in a harbor.
My young eyes did not marvel
at the way it sat above the water.
My eyes drifted toward the sharp flashes
of filler metal, melting in between two joints.
I was told not to look directly at it;
I couldn’t look away.

My bones grew,
and my structure was fused
into its permanent fixture and
today I’m given a mask,
heavy tinted black glass over my eyes.  
I’m not told to look away,
merely blinded.
Watching the same work I marveled at years ago
hands working tirelessly at a task,
performing flawlessly,
and when I close my eyes,

the spark persists.

Even now floating metal masses,
though seemingly improbable,
still do not amaze me
like the light created
in broad daylight.
But even this joint
is not fused flawlessly,
smooth and stubborn,
metal makes sure of this.