HIGH NOW, BEYOND
MY LOOKING UP
from all things
at bottom,
are only walls
which hide the buildings,
confronting me
simultaneously brick
in red, but
limed, and azure welted hazily.
This is the long
view, taking in more
than just each
brick, laced white
in gossamer
mortar strands, up
beyond the reach
of any tallness.
Nothing assuages
here but this clay tide,
baked horizontal,
end to end, and placed high
against this
moment’s monumental height,
which if I try, I
touch. . .
but touching,
only trace forever being
Time’s ever
faceless stranger’s son.
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