Skyline

“If I were a century younger
maybe I would understand,”
one building downtown says
to another building, its neighbor,
flirting shamelessly with every pedestrian
on the pavement below. They caress
its walls with their hands in passing.
There are things we squeeze out
of other beings just by being ourselves.
Those people must be like tubes of paint.
My favorite is the tube of ultramarine.
Because it has such dumbfounding coverage.
There’s no such thing as a mistake
if you are truly ultramarine. You just smear
more of you all over everything and no worries.
There is this meta-trope that life is a composition.
But you have to buy into that idea of linear time.
I don’t. Who lives that way, really? You do?
Seriously? You don’t go back to the beginning
and play it all over again as you will with a song?
You don’t mix all the times together at once
or fall in love with your life backwards
as Capricorns do? Then I pity you.
The ocean opts to live with no skyline.
“I respect your ultramarine decision,”
I tell the ocean every time I go past
it blue front door open on my own weird sense of time.

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