My desk is covered with bills and mail,

and things that glitter in the sun.

 Is odd the chain

I think sometimes. 

 

The lights go out across the hall,

some of them,

while I muse on chewings of day and

night cycles and overly-considered

lives.

I sleep.

 

God, my desk is covered with bullets

and mud cakes

matted in the hide and hair of sleeping bulls. 

Is funny the chain

of daises the children have woven around their necks

as they sleep in the sun,

giant flies blowing around their noses,

black plastic nostrils flared,

sleeping,

sun glazed,

pole axed,

slaughter house bound.

 

My desk was dug up

Three thousand years later

Covered with billets of mud

Matted with dark bloody hair

And gashes of tarnished

Petrified

Rose petals.

 

As it sat uncovered

Drying in the sun

Unclear social scientists began to peel

Layer by glossy layer

The imaginary-thin imprint

Of each vision it had shared.