as I pull pants and socks from my suitcase,
or plunk me down before a screen to “work.”
But a desire consumes a dream, and then,
it is. Something human under my shirt
comes undone. Do I believe this is wrong?
Ideals pulled from plinths, cast in bay-water:
such justice for old standards still assumes
a law which makes it justice enacted.
The thing’s dripping tin head snags on the dock.
Its toes dip the waves. Stand it up, baptized.
Return to the work tab. Send the emails.