The Workers

There are men in rooms, sharpened

by white-wet light which cut right through

the inch-thick residue

piled on glass. Windows –

a constant here – magnifying whatever was left

of the outside, the other place. Such men!

Jaundiced, slow

prodding small seeds in row on row

of cat-black soil –

fertilised by those who know

their compounds, their futures, or just

how the shoots can grow and bend toward

a sun that may

or may not thrust itself from dawn to night.

Chariots. A great bird. Ball of gas.

They sit, and gaze

and hour on hour they push and test

the cracking husk. A blade, a new life

races upwards.

–

Now broken free, it’s quickly splinted

strapped up, gartered, forced to stand.

They gender, sex, they splice and list,

pen tips wet lips

and stems are bound,

crutches employed.

the blossom is sketched, breath is held,

leaves cover shame, and shame is shown

clearly. Slowly. Daily.

–

It is hot in here

and so very, very quiet.

They say the men are old.