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Monday Back to Work

I want to be so elsewhere that I become a moon
and twirl between seen and unseen.
At work, the poems braid and unbraid
the hair of each other’s horses.
In meetings, the poems pour scotch and discuss
diary entries from their mother as a child.
Distracted is the oil in my bath water.
Subterranean life where I live is the only place
where the pond stays full and unbroken.
I get by pretending to believe in phrases
like “circle back” and “touch base” but
I don’t even know how to make coffee
and it’s difficult to teach me.
The fire alarm laughs, you don’t.
In all this “checking in” we miss each other—
that’s why we visit each other’s dreams.
In that dream, a snail flies a kite, and reeling it in
violently, leaves it in the dirt. Did you see?
Of course you didn’t, a snail has no hands
and doesn’t know how to, can’t do that,
a snail has a soul and eyes.
When I am tired, I open a window
and stick my head out.
Poems flow through and sanctify me,
and everything is flickering, flickering leaves.
I am not ready for work at all,
but I can put on those clothes at any time,
like water shaping itself to a plastic bottle.
Work must smell like a dry river.
Work must smell like dirt.