Standing in the center of what was once
a cutting room floor,
I wonder how many windows are left to shatter—
only a handful of stones in my pocket.
And how those I’d long ago broken are now taped,
boarded, secured, as if I’ve never been here
before. How the walls have endured my neglect
and fire. Everything still smells of me.
And still I can hear the rusted gears churning,
the knives flaying,
all the workers returning to work.
I see the lawn I thought I’d grazed down to soil,
green and full and sprouting the same dead flowers
I thought I’d eaten down to stem.