Unfinished Work I

The hallways lie empty,
pools of lamplight are as dead fish
upon the tile, cast down from the ceiling
flattened as though fallen from a great height,
the way the rain outside hurls itself
in wet mockery of dried gills, or perhaps
the windblown fog cries for the departed,
the drops may taste of salt, of memory of the sea,
where the roll of waves lends soft percussion
to the mournful dirge humming from the air ducts.