Box

I see angles. Sharp ones, soft ones, patches of shadow as the sun rises for the triangle days of waiting: For the rare comings and goings of people, so we have somewhere to go in our minds. Dreaming. Boats of balconies sailing through sky, where clouds are left unharmed. Angles floating through windows and my door, unlocking a sanctuary to let in a little bit of heaven, 6 o’clock songs, voices bouncing between buildings, mingling with the birds, washing away the static sameness of the days, like waves and pulling you into life once again.