are people not.likealltherest?

this is a story about the dancing fingers on the air
that pick up the still life clothes on the floor.
where the city is in a rest of summer,
rest of colors of cold.

between early mornings and late evenings
think she might have found an other part.
a part more than closer and less than far
thinking, how people escaping the worlds they create
tragic are.

i think i can make it,
once more.