Ich bin

Someone is playing jazz,
A seagull cries.
Saxophone, seagull, sky;
We are adrift in this island of inroads,
Stranded by stone edifice.
So many doors we should not open.
This then is our life, and illusion of option.
If we had the master keys,
We might still prefer the fire escapes.
Things are better through the window,
evocative in a  glimpse,
a single cry soaring.
Let us hold hands on the threshold
and confess our liminal hearts.

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