Stage Operations

[anticalamity]

The copy machine’s silver light
Reruns itself, dragging. Warmed,
I dream of his pierced lower lip.
If there was a Start button for life
Or consequence to caged
Florescent lights in the ceiling
Then those pools of glass and heat,
Roots bare and smooth,
Clean and busy would be Human,
Like his lips, pouting warmly,
Pierced by a paperclip.
A desk in a jungle.
A potted plant in the corner.