Our office building has glass
walls that reflect everything and
become invisible. We stand outside,
the lowest things in the mirror. Here’s
the slightly distorted self and the
anonymous parade of traffic. Cloud’s
hair slides across its silver
face. A falcon wings beside itself.
The windows throw
light. Our pupils clench. Entrenched
inside, people make decisions. We
bob and sink in their wake like
capsized boats always losing the
horizon. Inside, amber files
preserve carefree accusations, births,
names of the untouchables,
conversations. Inside, elevators rise and
fall, chasing each other through a
fog of electronic memoranda. Here’s a
hydroponic garden of cubicles. Here’s
the open office plan, rooms where
orders are issued. Here they type
our papers, our blood, our brains,
The building claims to be ours but
we belong to it. It’s alive in the
swing of a walk, the weight of a
voice, a quivering taste bud. It
lives in water, the wild, the wed,
the dying and between the fevers of
We’re timber cut for lumber or
saved for cultivation. The building
shouts our names with sirens. We
twist and look every time. We become
reflections. We find the line. We sign.
It reaches into us like poured wine
reaches the bottom of the glass.
By Nathan from Exhaust Fumes and French Fries.
This is a jigsaw poem. Want to play along? Leave me a comment and send your information to firstname.lastname@example.org with something about poetry in the subject line.