A Loan Man stands

Alone

Awkwardly in a conference room

Through corrugated glass slats

Cracks reveal stacks

of printer paper, standard size

Promising- so bright and white

And towering

Taller than he

Behind which he hides.

Sighs.

Closes his eyes.

Hand to forehead

Elbow to stack

A prayer recited: "Is it five o'clock yet?"

"Somewhere", he thinks

And ther...

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From the front of the conference room

He wraps us in a voice born of the pulpit

Buttery and gravelly and low

He floats down from the makeshift stage

Tells of the flying fish

Gives us magic sunglasses

So we can see through water

He's here to talk about new eyes

To see what under(lies)

He's selling a new language

In it, we write our morality on the wall

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She'll take them back

The stones cut carefully and stacked against her

Her winds find ways through the cracks

She'll take them back 

All content property of Chandra Mossine

*This original poem was published by the Columbia Art League in their 2014 Interpretations collection

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PROLOGUE

A sharp stick

In rough hands

Searching plains

To make bodies temples

Over wood fires

Quietly smokes rise

To industry

(and thanking, we ate)

Today struggle becomes clammy fingertips

Yearning for

The slick touch

Of some ancient bones

That time had turned to sludge

But we're

Always seeking

Always making new temples

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