The high triangular office
caressed by lights,
inks of red blue and black
running in miles of transparent wires
to a hand's grip of jackhammer quills,
nine tails of broken bulbs,
a hillside collecting boots and celery stubs,
voices booming in caverns of mud,
acres of steam-rolled gloves,
the melted print of a day's work
spent carving molecules.

Long rings of disintegrated paper
going oval and figure eight
feet of oil and brow of encrusted stone
nucleic acid linked to a farmer's torch
the kernel's purple stirring under a yellow cap
pinched white, the drip's lid of vibratory particles
kissing the butts of sunken blades.