I sit on the bench above the city. Buses breathe at the crossing lights. Windows fill, then empty out. A dog goes off behind a gate. Two voices rise from somewhere below. They get this far and lose their shape. I know this rhythm. I know it well. It gets here flat. It does not stay. It reaches here and stops. No weight. No mark. The city keeps on speaking. It doesn’t land. Life keeps moving down below. It doesn’t land. A couple smokes without a word. Someone drags their shopping up. Blue lights wash the lower street. Traffic bends and seals again. People gather, then move on. Nothing holds for very long. Even sharp things pass straight through. Even this comes up blank. I hear it all. I know the shape. It gets this far and goes flat. The city keeps on speaking. It doesn’t land. Life keeps moving down below. It doesn’t land. Not apart. Not inside. Just somewhere nothing settles. Even raised voices, even sirens, even closeness pass in outline. The city keeps on speaking. It doesn’t land. Life keeps moving down below. It doesn’t land. Same bench. Same city. It reaches here and dies out.
