The building’s ungainly.
Glassed-in balconies bulge
     from dirt-coloured walls.
     Not tall, not squat,
it neither looms nor crouches.
It stands, seven levels,
     behind its frizzy hedge,
     its toothy gate. But I
don’t have to judge it
as I go along the path.
     I live within, in the space
     behind the windows
where breezes twirl through
and sunlight tangoes in.

From The emptied bridge
First published in LiNQ 42, January 2017

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