No Outlet

Houses arranged in round about ways
that can only be pondered from the sky.
Bike rides all throughout them that aren’t
bike rides really but excuses to go off and talk.
The subjects vary everyday, but in a way
they are always about the horizon.
Not where the earth meets the sun
but another one far out at the edge
of our sight. In the vast empty spaces
between collections of stars
where the quiet is like an intelligence
all to itself.
The statues in the gardens are like
watchdogs for a conspiracy
of plants. Vines grow around them
peacefully and put the whole
world in a trance.
A woman in her window
flicks a pill off of her thumb
into her mouth. Her curtains
fell in just such a way
she almost looked like
something else.

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