Job


Standing on a box for several years—


moving my hands just so—


outside, then inside, then sitting down—


trout in newspaper. Trout to take apart and heat just so—


then just the newspaper, the symbols—


symbols to order just so, a substitute—


and my hands like plain, steady gears—


symbols substitute for them—


and years happen brainlessly—


and an entire person is wasted on introspection—


in the background of insignificant action—


wrapping a fish in a newspaper—


memorizing birthdays of Roman Emperors—


touching the girl’s shoulder. Involuntary smiling—


and she recoils.


A manmade day inside, work—


You are made of the ground, you are ground up—


I don’t turn away from it.

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