itís like breaking the small members of a box kite

two planes being overflown like into a garage

and all that fuel not spent

like an angry teeth growled dialogue

and on this blue day no one noticing

or listening

only the self-same sounds of

the nice planned repetition of days

do you you want to say

or add something or something maybe else you

possibly did or couldíve said

thereís a warm sticky roll still

dangled in your fingers

do you and the people there as signs as

attractive confetti coming down

there proven there is no ground floor

only the several unmattered bits

we, you,