poem

Visiting the Skyline

You beautiful
my drawing
We’ll walk by later this afternoon.
We’ll walk by the window
so you can recognize us.

I’ll be the cloaked one,
turban-footed with glee.
My partner will be resting,
as his is a siesta nation.
If only.

Of course we keep our water
at the top, in enormous barrels.
We anticipate their rust.
Slowly, our seasons will drip down
in figments of salted metal, down the mortar,
onto the sidewalk, between cracks
in the slipstream. Of course we do this.

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