Above the flaking 30s building
Splays a strato-cloud-dotted sky
That, when combined, mark the
Border for our ephemeris powerlines.
Some stand on the street, staring
For hours, stopping traffic,
Some want to look
Further along.
Some, in the airconditioned bus
Slouch their bodies
With their necks leering,
With or without sentiment.
Not a festoon of golf flags
Or a trellis of party lights
The long line of our lives
Sees no end, only splices.
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