The city somehow looks greyer on lazy afternoons.
Concrete stands
facing concrete.
A silent edifice
eyes another
with its hundred eyes: All showing glimpses of life
rarely chanced.
The sudden monologue of a crow breaks through
the slow yellow.
The absence
of motion rings
its presence
throughout the gallery of windows one after another.
And the gods of
miracles and wonder
are past, only this--
geometry put
to careful display, exposed to a lifeless pose—remains.
Poised and planned.
One cannot build.
Will not create.
One can only stare
through one’s window and see more windows there.
March 31, 'o8


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This is well-written!! The ending is great, and the form interesting as well.
i love it too!


