Monday, January 21, 2013

boxed in

The sunrises end at the ceiling.

Is the sky the limit

When we're on the sixth floor?

Perpetual symmetry

The bleeding sun into the gauzy sky

and each window separates

The depth between pixals and prison.

Long Island Sounds like flat soda

Across painted tin-foil

too distant to run my fingers across

but close enough to see the light

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