Patches of insulation are stacked
in piles and look like skyscrapers
across the gray dirt covered floor.
Saw dust mounds at the intersections
soak up the air and make being there
feel like breathing paper.

Puddles of oil leave Rorschach tests
as their ghosts, and haunt the foundation
forever. The table saw is broken, halfway cut
through a white marble box, that it shouldn’t
have been able slice open in the first place.

The corpses of generations of flies still
haven’t broken down, and fill the bottoms
of empty paint buckets, covered in their
color. On the outside everything flakes apart
in the sun, and the grass has grown to wrap
around the buildings.

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