Annie sees dragons in all things
hidden like moths amid fur:
here in the bricks of her office
is a wyrm set to watch her flinch
through doors opened by ghosts.
She ignores the nip of its breath
and clips through the marbled foyer,
lets the lift-drake enfold her
in glittery wings and huff
her aloft to her work nook.
The wyvern at the tea point
winks as it casts a cere
of flame over water; she strokes
the nub of its snout as it drips
steam through her bitter grinds.
Colleagues walk the corridors
ahead of her, their heels a hiss
of static on the knots of a great
blue tongue, each step a whisper -
"I taste you; I hunger; I want."
Annie would tell her workmates
she sees dragons in all things,
that the office will eat them -
except the scales on their eyes
are part of the hide, best left.