buildings coming down

here, a slice of steel and glass 

a sky-high stack of offices

a mirror sixteen stories tall

to check your teeth for greenery

buildings coming down [[ pause... ]]

to the seashore

buildings coming down 

to the sea

look, a building knifed in two

a bathtub hanging in the air

this is how the joke plays out

when we are old, when we are grey

buildings tumbling down [[ pause... ]]

to the wrecker

buildings tumbling down

to the sea

the sigh and the shrug 

of a building facade 

melting suddenly 

into the sand

the crack and the roar 

of the air between us

turning suddenly

into a cloud

[[ it might be about aging, or urban renewal, or terrorism ]]

the meanness of work

They put up new buildings
as fast as they can
tear down the old ones.

One fall, one morning,
one more old building
with that ornate facade

is fenced in and blasted,
pulled down on its face,
and just trucked away.

Spring come the excavators,
cranes, steel and glass,
then twenty empty stories.

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.