Office Sonnet

Office Sonnet

The filing cab’net’s sleek black sides’ dull gleam
reflects the dim-blurred image of a foot
all sandal-wrapped with unclipped nails that seem
a cowry colored echo of a root
exposed from underneath a fleshy soil.
Softly sung to eyes, the image weighs
as much as steam from cheeks too long embroiled
or downy barbs by children’s fingers splayed,
a weight displaced by sounds of rustled paper,
construction tones beyond the office glass.
The iris shifts, blinks; attention tapers;
the knee curls slow and bids reflections pass.

The world external, rendered partially mute,
regains its misplaced language in the foot.

Running in the Nose

 

He blows his nose and out shoot little human people. As they catapult from his nostrils, he feels their tiny elbows and brittle knees bounce and tumble along his soft nasal corridors; his eyes water as they snag hairs and wake follicles. Little beings. They are lighter than bird bone and bundled in flea-barb armor. Their cries are nearly impossible to hear, like the dialogue of a dream post-waking. But somehow we hear them: “The tapewyrm of travesty is reborn in the world; the horn has been blown–to arms!”