I swear the air is fine in here
these cool castings do not bite
the hapless creature inside of them.
Reckless soul found unwinding only in dreams.
The sweet soft sexuality of an automatic stapler.
The shock that shocks the accounting manager
in her puffy suit with the tag sticking out.
Endlessly there is an answer blotted out
by the comfort of a keyboard and the extra
numerals in my bank account.
Some days a whisper from the images
of golden fields and cherry trees steers
my blotted vision quite away
from the regulated pressure of
the usual fixation of the screen.
I seek no transition, no half inch change,
nor do I know if I seek change at all,
but what I assume is the sort that will take a thousand miles
in a heart beat, the breaking open of an instant
suspended than satisfied onto me.
Darling, roots of the earth (you honeysuckle smell you!),
this body suit is as toasty as an icicle.
I beg to differ, at least today, that your decision
means anything other than going bad
while the world keeps going
without me.
