Walking to work
Covering my ears as always
Past the scream and grind
Of savage machines
My feet deep in heavy snow.
Suddenly I saw:
By the construction site sat
Balanced on the edge of a curb
Something black and red
Under a thick layer of ice
Immune to the December sun.
In those days I didn't know
what a scarlet tanager
looked like dead
or sounded alive.
It's the thirteenth time.
Torn (no, ripped), taped back together,
bleeding ink,
signature-tattooed,
official, regulated, proper,
destined to arrive there,
at the wrong time,
the wrong department,
in the wrong hands.
The white envelope dark
like Hades, smirks,
mocking my inability
to follow elusive instructions.
I must have sinned.
The form's my boulder.
Why do I bother?
Why do I bother?
Fluorescent lights reflecting off the floor
Painted with jet-black but faded arrows
That point
Not at the jasmine-scented night
Leaning against the giant glass
But soothing lies beyond guarded doors
Flyers overhead asleep in the sky
Flyers afloat with nothing—naught—to flap
Going nowhere quicker
On greedy dreams and fiery throats
Metal swallowing beaks and souls
Inside fluorescent lights flicker
