a poem

work

corrupt arctic chills through warm putty,
wobbling to an oceanic swirl and temporal rhythm-
a grim polka in quarter-time.
Eight hours and, at dusk,
the most correct; most ultimate solution
falls on deaf ears of the mediocre.

witness the skeletal ghosts of
fishes on the walls, night humans in night vision-
topsy-turvy and jetlagged days.
Flurescent glare is nuclear,
daybreak marks a rewakening; return to the street
to seize but an hour of streaming halflight.