My supervisor slid,
his skin squeaking down,
past my plate glass window
forty floors above the ground.
And as he passed my desk,
eyes level with mine,
Asked me "how's the report coming?"
I reply, "just fine."
But I'm lying
But I'm lying
And we both know it
And we both know it
And can't escape it
It's Ancient...
My supervisor says,
"Let's backdate ourselves,
Let our stunned hands turn to dumb stone,
refinance ourselves."
And when the signed names glow, constellational
in a vine knot, luminescent underneath the cold...
the cold lamp of the old moon,
we will have vanished!
We will have vanished!
The current come undone
within such choked wholes,
unfinished.