Summer Office With a Small View of Grand Central

Cold offices stay as you leave them. 
Stay square, stay stark 
Stay stiff with grey 
Language, with grey thoughts all wishing 
Otherwheres, with teeth 
Slightly bared 
Yet the air is bloodless, and sexless 
And studded 
With the tiptip of typing, the 
“Calling for Johnson. Is he in? 
We need those documents now. Right now." 

Right now

An entire day is unfolding. 

Right now 

A hard yellow apple of sun

Lays the light down

Slow. Slow slow 

Like a woman lays down

Shoulderbone slow. . . 

And Hermes is blazing 
Over Grand Central Station, he’s 
Carved smooth as syrup 
But he’s stiller than the stone 
He’s made of 

I can't hear. I want to hear the rumbling 
Of light and knives and the heart's white rocks 


And will they hear us, 
Those dear dirty gods 
While we’re caught 
In these cold, clean boxes?