By Alessandra Rizzi

On a rare morning sun

a loud April sky

slouched against my desk on the seventh floor 

I watch two men at work.

Sat at the edge of the roof

– their building a construction site –

both legs hang on and

dance on thick air.

I watch them as they talk, their gestures cinematic 

half-eaten sandwiches forced to move along.

I watch them and

their eyes follow me, bathing in light

my brush

falters, and suddenly

all around, an overwhelming guilt

for a science I can’t explain.

Turning in my seat

I drop a pen on a scribbled sheet

and wonder

if they miss the moving ground

of planet Earth.