glancing over my shoulder

there’s a small blonde girl

sitting in the window

on the third story, her legs

kicking the old brick

haphazardly as they dangle.


from here

she looks insignificant,

an oversized old grey

sweatshirt all but swallowing

everything but the randomness

and those legs.


maybe she’s thinking of jumping,

headfirst onto pavement;

sure it’d be a clean dive

if angled properly.

maybe because she was dying

already, from the stale haste

of her daily perceptions,

flat-lined perspectives

and want of fresh air.



maybe, from above,

just sitting on the edge could be,

would have to be,