Again, the face that passes me

With the same care-worn fatigue

His lips are pursed, dark burgundy

His hair flaming maize, his eyes whatever that’s left of the sky

Again, the clock strikes dawn as the stars cleared

He and I, we work hard, for a promotion

I see sparrows playing hopscotch on the electric wires

Summer steals his memory

woods burns out putrid whiteness in his trodden path

He and I, we cut sleep, drink cheap coffee

I see sparrows die skewered, their heads smashed in by the bleached windows

The sun catches them, clip their wings

He and I, sweating like machines in our cubicles

When he comes back to me, his hair singed with crude oil, the clouds are silent

I can’t hear him through the lisp of my nightmare

Hands, hands that typed on keyboards, that tied ropes, that sorted papers, that handled raw meat

Fingers, uncut nails, leaves that sap veins dry in my arms

He, the Icarus I picture outside my office window

I, follow after Dante, as the week descends down to Monday