this building
by Rorie Newman
has never known the word crooked.
it's everything a skeleton aspires to be.
the thread woven casts of collagen and
calcium–hung in not so perfect symmetry,
hips slanted in science classrooms–wish
their two-hundred-and-six bones could
be translated into the forty-nine floors of
this building
has the word precise imprinted against
its teeth and tongue. carved with a chisel
against its spiral steps and newel, metal
creaking against long-dried cement. each
line is drawn into the concrete with a ruler.
each curve is spun from a spirograph–but
just one perfect loop. site plans breathe
life into this building
has never sparked the word life into any of
the minds of the eyes that view it. instead
fingertips and toes feel numbness begin to
poke needles into soft padding. instead ribs
feel seaweed weave in and across, pulling
knots into sternum. and the only word the
eyes can see is tower as above them looms
this building
stands tall. just like its supposed to