Decant

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,

our tissue.

.

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

the passionate.

.

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 poetswhobog@yahoo.com with something about poetry in the subject line.