Hale
the dust mites revolted, the bosses have won:
it’s almost christmas now and we’ve been run
down so low, here we are, licking the fuzzed floor
and yelling at eachother over artificial walls.
my dreams are like a marathon i cough through
with strangers; when i wake i feel so tired.
and that odd unconsciousness keeps my restlessness
seeping through the down.
when the day rolls into evening now,
i leave you without a word, without a gesture.
this is cruel, and at night i grieve the cruelty,
as if i have allowed an innocent thing to stay injured
though i can’t say what between us has been broken
other than the static luminance that shines
a hale pale fire between your space and mine.