This Desk

This desk is a ledge on the riverbank;
this chair is a tufted mound;
these partitions are reed and bulrush;
this screen I stare at is surface glare
from eddies and riffle churn.

This strip-lit ceiling is endless sky
in the time and motion of swallows.
This office hum is reed-talk
where the wind and warblers fly.
This glass-lined floor is a rutted lane;

this building is hillside pasture;
these people I wade through are barley.
I smell the cows in fields of clover 
and white lacings of cow-parsley.
This keyboard is a tackle box;

these words are hooks and sinkers
I flick from tapping fingers.
Look where they splash the screen
to realize, through their sunken line,
some distant place, some other time.