repositories of dust and guano and crammed pots
wherein roots bend around until dirt is consumed
the faces of the buildings line them some face to face some very close
sometimes I lean out of the ledges, I bend backward from the streets
they're hanging on the other side, and I imagine it's you
  hanging clothes, watering plants, tilting your head
driven by my sight to half a wave

not knowing what to do with your body I used
  before you get it in.

why you? because you never cared for a balcony when you had it,
  and now you live in a city where to smoke grass is
allowed but balconies're not, 'cause they cost too much
but it makes no difference anyway, you know
the air kept changing today, and balconies still look clogged
  of the air abandoned
by the lives that lived it.