View Without Vacuum

If you feel a street turns into every city you’ve ever been to,
smells of every city you’ve ever lived in,
where blush flowers are the same blush flowers of your school days
and palm leaves and green ceilings of tree are
the same shade of the path to a hidden hot forest dream.
Glass reflects the sun like a puddle once reflected a laundromat’s glow.
The water holds sweetly onto ducks like a kiss once did in Alphabet City, now a memory made metallic and cold like the river, too.
No view exists without stamped impressions
and no city exists on its own.

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