dust.

i wanted my windows open.
he taught me how to close them
you will see, he spoke as he walked away after
closing one side with the outside shutter and the other side
with the inside plane. you will see how it starts to pile up in the terrace.and so it is.
a grey pile is forming along the green wall. fuzz is collecting aroung the pipes. the city blows and settles in this box set ajar that is
this terrace.
i don’t want to hate this high wall nor fight with the lamina roof blocking me from sky, but i may end up sabatoging it. piece by piece it may start to fall.

a view. a vision. if i stay,
must come from within. the obstructions,
force my eyes upwards,
to glimpse between concrete and metal
sky
blue, white, or grey,
to behold that which is not of human hand or mind.
i look up more than i have in years. through the cracks,
the light still enters. on the roof,
the pigeons rest. and there, on the black cable,
it might be a dove.