She is sleeping with her face
against the window that is over iced
and the bus is barely staying on the road.
Other people all are talking in the culture
of what they hold against their ears
another course to route the power
over all the gears that disappear alone.
A single stone is thrown and breaks
the storefront glass that everyone
will pass to make it back down town
before there isn’t any more.
The music is familiar in the lobby
of the hotel off the freeway where
the wheels are all in motion,
and there isn’t any ocean
out for miles.
The elevator swings against
the sides of its great corridor
with every rise and slight malfunction
of the rusted doors,
and all the front desk folk assure us
it is nothing.
Sculptures infringe on apartment buildings
that the artists could never hope
to get a room in, and all the metal
twisted butterflies match up
perfect with the blurry eyes
that always cry like they don’t realize
no one cares.

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