I’ve been here before, standing in the all-glass
elevator heading to the top of the Sears Tower
with Chicago looking like a cheap plastic Lego set
under our feet.
You’re here again, too, trying to block out
the vastness of Lake Michigan with the flats
of your hands, your mouth is shaping words:
I can’t get what I want.

Now we’re approaching 1,451 feet,and my voice
is trying to respond but sound has become suspended
alongside us, floating above figures shaped as business
people, tourists.

I’ve been here before, attempting to see through walls,
wondering if your hands, your mouth, our Windy City
is just another part of the delusion. I try to make elevator
cogs freeze where they are,

stay in the cold Midwestern sky. Instead, we are descending,
drop away from my words, still drifting where I left them:
you can get me.


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