Drain in the mop sink is clogged up again
Tight
With curdled cream from the five cups of instant coffee left to set,
leaving sigils
of mold to bloom and bless.

Like herbs gathered
to dry in a windowsill,

Like a pokeberries crushed,
to mash

Like a bouquet of clover inflorescence, given
brave with love

but instead of warm hearths and witchcraft,

This
smells like the devil’s asshole crawled up itself and started singing hot opera
breaths
Around the office.

On this day, as we bloodhound scry
Our spaces

–having not yet discovered the source of rank and rot–

Spinning– as one does– around the altar of caffeinated lament

That we most know our work is sacred.