When your work environment
is no longer dictated to you,
thirty hours are taken away
on the wings of little birds
stared and named and the main stage
large birds up there
not once beating about their thermal circles.
Sixty hours are taken away
tapped songs to rain and the rhyme scheme
highway made heard through single pane window.
Ninety two hours disappear
into the black inside your heart.
One hundred and nine vanish,
head cradled by hands behind your head
about the time twenty years ago
you starred at a ceiling fan
that only wobbled when you stared at it long enough.
Somehow, they've built and sold another one.
Am I at home? This is my apartment.
My rug on my floor.
My forearms going numb, swaddled
inside the womb of an unseasonable
December afternoon.
Nowhere near born again.
original works of parts
