The wrought-iron fire escapes
Z the front of the tenement facades,
their shadows hard in the city sun,
prison bars across aged red brick,
the soft billow outward of cotton sheer
curtains in the open windows, someone
cooking fish in the heat, hot oil and breading
spreading to the upper floors on a waft,
a breeze with upward-eyes, to a blue
not reflected below, where dreams are 
more wispy than clouds overhead,
more daring than jumps between rooftops,
where a plummet is sometimes a blessing,
to fall precedes the pride

cc: CC '22