i live in a plain white world
serene and so, so clean
skinny boys tote power tools around
drilling artwork onto walls, drilling walls into
smithereens with no repercussions.
a wall is a wall; it is common in these parts.
i miss the dusty faces
the hot and humid places without
whirring blades for comfort
or indoors and outdoors as so distinct.
i miss the world in which my footsteps do not echo;
there is nothing to send them back to me
beyond the distant assumption
of a world held together by sheer will.
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