Aiming Point
Mattias Inghe & Jennifer VanBuren


I measure walls
with purple plumb line
snaps on conceding plaster.
Distant urban murmur
and dusted fingers, the only signs
of hours laid like bricks.

Hostess to inertia,
you too would measure dimension
and slide perception on an axis,
plot and coordinate every possible move.

Without a script or whispered prompts
you too would stare for hours,
measuring time by shadows on the wall

and drill make believe window scenes
to witness world, a void
of plumb line snaps away.

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