Ghost Braille
of rain
on sfumato smear
of tram windows.
Sun staccato
through same.
Angled shadows,
fallen brows.
Time is
the gun
of gravity.
Everyone on Earth
is a stranger
on the train,
in the end
everyone leaves.
Everyone
gets off.
At
the same stop,
though destinations
differ,
I don’t
think you’re
my neighbor,
know you
from anywhere,
wonder where
you’ve gone.
All the eye
sees, closes,
forgets.
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