one ceiling tile too many

i sit, squarely, obliquely,
unable to conjure up the languid lucidity i rely on.
lights arc and hum silently, brightly,
caressing my head heavily above me.
my joints crack, slightly, thinly,
stretching like dormant roots towards water.


the carpet is burnt, the desks are flat, the cabinets are dark, the sound is static and the windows only reflect everything around me.
i tell you this, all of this, because i am tired and long for the azimuth of spring, for the silver angle of moonlight on fresh cut grass, for the brisk wind of budding trees and honeybees.

yep, I've got spring fever....