The return

some scratches

the yellow hydrant isn’t spewing water, but
the crack in the sidewalk has grown
I can see green
weed its way through
the four leaf clover sort

he hasn’t washed my fingerprints from the window
that time I flattened myself against the window
nose and lips pressed to cold glass
looking straight down from eight floors up,
wondering.
Could I keep from falling forward if it was gone?

the clouds havent moved
but the building in the once empty lot across the street
was built to break through them

the room devours the sun,
scoffs at the moon
and though it should be,
it’s never done

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