The flickering fire within fades under fluorescent light
spend the days talking of files grown old
Aging hands on a modern keyboard
we are a minute of moving grace
Hollering—changing shapes
the woman’s ear grows into the receiver
I open mail around the building
whose job is it anyways
Should we hold burdens in fake flowers
tearing the transformal portrait of consciousness
Will the fields one day be littered in replicas
no bees to greet divinity
Kail Anderson 