Order this writing in the collection book Breaking Silences available for only 1650 |
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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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From A Floating Apartment
by Luke Buckham
From my window, I watch an office building
where the workers are bringing their desks
onto the sidewalk. And I hope: I hope this is
the final clearing out. I hope that the clocks
in those walls, the ones they slide their
fingers in and out of all day, are being
dismantled. I hope their fingers can return,
spiritually, to their hands and be reconnected
to bodies in womb-water, and never
get lost again in walls of buttons,
coils of electric cord, and tiny guillotines.
But, soon enough, the moving trucks descend
through the web of slanting streets,
and men arrive wtih new desks, new telephones,
new garbage cans, all of it looking suspiciously
like the last fleet of equipment, with only
a touch less patina. And new workers
in new suits file in, thinking time will not
touch them this time.