for helen

walking home, watching the buildings move slowly against the cobalt sky:
the windows allow no entrance, and only reflect,
making these places look hollow,
but in no t.s. elliot kind of way; for the unforgivable lack of a better word:
wholesome
(or pure, maybe).
the wind blows in and out,
and in and out,
allowing nothing foul to linger.
i think: if i lived in that hollow house,
all i'd have to do is lift my arms,
and the wind would catch me,
and take me,
and float me above the city.

up here, i can see everything.