The ceiling is real
glass a touch screen
with a greasy print
on a many-tapped camera icon

It should have been pasted with stickers
so that the ambitious fledgling
doesn’t smack into the transparency
in full flight

Better still be made of wood
let the hurrying feet ring out
as the bigwig orders
another cup of coffee

add some stairs by Escher
a thousand illusory birds
turn the room upside down
until the spinning swallows the silence

Shaking a toolshot opens
the corridor no one dared enter
shards from the ceiling on the floor, see
broken-winged, the sky is blue.

Translation: Trevor Scarse