Building Intervals

I
In the city, buildings sit
so close together,
you can reach straight out a window
and place an open palm on a brick wall.

When it snows a giant hand
slides manila flakes between the buildings
like a file.

In the summer voices jump
from sill to sill carrying burdens
and joys to apartments
that don’t want them.

Luckily the windows are staggered
enough so you can’t look out
and see a kitchen table full of dust.

II
The spaces between buildings,
too narrow to use, are like the spaces
between fingers, holding modern histories
unwritten stories. Some clumsy
like chopsticks, others sturdy like a pen.

In the city, building intervals
are small and short and it takes longer
to drive to work and you have less
time to say things that mean,
like I love you and it hurts when.

III
There’s not enough space between
the words to listen
to what’s not being said,
to the imminent sadness
underlying, to the pain
and repression,
to the heavy breathing
of a wordless language.

There’s not enough space between
the buildings to see the sun setting
on the horizon, the child crying alone
at night, there’s no real driver
directing this hive of humans

in pursuit of not one thing,
but chaotically too big
and spinning off the road
on black ice called the 21st century.