My hair feels like spiders, the backpack
a body, balancing on the day’s thousands
of monochromatic yawns.
A woman places papers at my desk, winter
Creased in her lips. I shake my head;
I shake my head. Some phantom
plays with the clock on the wall, hours
delicate, the humming constant. A fly
lands on my sweater, peacefully blind.
Here we are again: fretting over
flawed numbers. When I scrub at the graphite,
I must look ill. These people
look ill. The temperature acts in
greed, doesn’t it? Craving human warmth,
in a chorus of black birds. The dying
square of grass boasts its final blush
(dreamlessly smiling), no longer afraid.
On the second floor, I understand.