Frank descends by the spiralling staircase to
the concrete pavement outside,
where pot holes fill with polluted rain.
Worms have gathered to splash
in shallow puddles on the sidewalk.
No one ever knew there were so many worms,
until it rained.
But, I suppose, anything can come through
all which is cracked.
Depending on the weather,
Frank is energized and exhausted by the city.
Urban disappointment has something to do with
tall buildings blocking
his natural line of horizon.
Confused by the buzz on the street,
Frank fleets
to his studio high as birds soar,
the 93rd floor.
He dashes to the table and pulls out a blank
piece of printing paper.
He stares into the white abyss
as if he were bound for the void.
Who knows how much time
has passed just now?
The sun is shining in as bright
as the white sheet which allures him.
The warmth from the orange fiery ball
distracts his gaze from the paper
into the blaze
until the round blacks of his eyes
turn white with sun glitters.
Upon which instance,
Frank finds himself
in the void.
