Sandra Jones

My office like the panther’s cage immuring

The door a shifting rectangular world

Am I, like all the others, disappearing

Toward the longer side into the void?

I hear their voices long before I see them

And after how their footsteps slowly fade

Will I become the sound and steady rhythm

And drift toward other portals that we made?

I sit upright and stare into my screen

The helpless cries retreat into the gaze

My mind the cudgel in our common dream

To strike the nail again in dreary haze.