the noon office

[[ how days pass ]]

It's not so awful,
this office glass,
these window shades,
each slice of light
across my face.

At noon with tea
I look across:
another building,
another looking glass
ten stories high,
half an hour long,
thirty minutes,
one thousand
eight hundred
seconds, to stand
at this window
to settle my mind.

We learn to catch
it in the glass:
A cloud, a cloud,
a cloud, a cloud,
another cloud.
A cloud, a cloud,
a cloud,
the track of sun.
And day is done.

At night I am
a tattooed cannibal.
At night I am
engraved.
At night I am
the pinpoint voice
between my ears.

And then we are
a binary star.