Another forty hours crucified.

Invisibly, more soul gets dissected

and tossed beneath the altar.

No matter how scared you are

of who you owe or what you miss

commuting to work

in the fog, realize,

even a life in the breeze gets snagged.





Plastic catches in barbed wire,

but untouched, the clocks gears

never quit braiding their brass

fingers throughout the long shift;

and that is lunchtime news worth clipping.

So head-stash a crooked little grin

as if it were Earth’s last blue flame,

burn home and shed that spotted

costume from your corolla

like flower petals thrown down

from the rain.