The sandpaper bricks
have come to cherish the clouds,
to desire the touch
of their silk smooth fingers
on the surface of the sky.
Men pass below and whisper,
scheme, ask for change
to buy a spare cup of coffee
and waste it in the rain.
Watching through the window,
we clasp hands briefly
and turn aside to go,
saying that it's preferable, on a day
like today, to frolic in the building's
silhouette, or else risk the crackling light
staining our foreheads pure gold.
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