a cityscape and stories to invent
stories because they must be, stories
to thrum some surface
hid by wall and roof, shuttered window,
blind or closed curtain
stories in minds or
shut in hearts, stories
that happened or wait as wishes,
pure deeds
or poisoned needles set
soldering some mind,
calm eyes their windows that belie
the violence.
all stories to hint at endless
realities,
libraries of nonfiction filled by
books never borrowed or checked
enough to stretch a mind so thin,
perhaps
I wonder what stories unknown,
alike inane as mine, are
imbued with pointless task,
cubicled obscurity of days clocked
for deposits in an ever emptying
account
too true
a blank page is not always bettered
by words
a man sits in a chair by a window
and the sun on his face
washes out color, makes
his eyes seem vacant,
or reveals them vacant.
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