Spinning Pins

What are the painter and the weaver doing?
Are they walking through tougher, choked paths, being brushed with sticky plant oils?
Are they talking about making hay?
Is she typing?
Is he mixing a blue?

Painting is somewhere between sweeping and building.
Cleaning is erosion.
Weaving is three-dimensional.

They watch the sun set by way of a hill to the east—a pink and gilded reflection—then surreptitiously slice a tomato, and part of its seedy flesh falls on the painter’s worn, string-laced shoe.