Working for the Weakened

16 02 2011

He’s seen the gently shadowed glen

That speaks to him with paper whispers

And canticles of melancholy.

Today he is basking unwillingly

In the artificial azure light

And fluorescent ten minute breaks,

But his alphabet goes beyond sigma

and he won’t be constrained

by ergonomic chairs.

Come jubilee, he’ll enter nothing

But the sweet reverie of amnesiacs

And bliss brought on by glorious labor.

For it was never work itself that atrophied

the bones, nor toil on its own,

But always absence of object.

So punching in and out

Need not be anything else

But joy for his own sake.





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