there’s a small blonde girl

sitting in the window

on the third story, her legs

kicking the old brick

haphazardly as they dangle.

*

from here

she looks insignificant,

an oversized old grey

sweatshirt all but swallowing

everything but the randomness

and those legs.

*

maybe she’s thinking of jumping,

headfirst onto pavement;

sure it’d be a clean dive

if angled properly.

maybe because she was dying

already, from the stale haste

of her daily perceptions,

flat-lined perspectives

and want of fresh air.

*

or,

maybe, from above,

just sitting on the edge could be,

would have to be,

enough.