lament of the office clerk
where’s the stapler that could
unite our souls forever?
where’s the whitener that could
erase my wrong gestures?
where’s the indelible marker
to write you a love poem?
why can’t my voice extend itself
so far as to reach your extension?
a blood blot on my shirt
after lunch
means the parking structure will be
empty when I go out
and the cement will reaccommodate itself
around me
as I walk towards
the flickering eye
of the butterfly