after Georgia O’Keeffe
Up here it’s easy to dismiss the ground
where many are struggling with bags full
of misery, have lost their way or nowhere to go.
Up here those self-important blocks
seem to be what matters. You watch them
striving to claim what remains of the sky
but they’re competing with three circles potent
as animal eyes in the dark. They lose out
to the lowest, the traffic light’s red pupil.
You can feel it boring into your interior
as if to prise out your thoughts, suspect
it finds satisfaction in causing stoppages
with its air of an immigration official who revels
in regulations and never considers need
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