The forearm of your black fleece sweater
glitters with sawdust. Surveying each
soon-to-be room, your head-carpenter
speaks softly, his yellow tape in hand.

A floor above the living-room, the noon sun
considers your now featureless face:
you’re someone I’ve never met,
quite perfect, intensely lit.

Is it because you are now where 
a giant standing-lamp will be? 
Someday the house will be done,
and I’ll realize what I saw as you.