I look at you, if you were floor,
then down on ground
would be my sky, and grounded
I would be no more.
I’d walk on you,
white paint is tracked,
and chair, floor, table
on new ceiling, glued.
I couldn’t reach
where people walked
but I could see
and count them, each.
Not so different, would it be?
I up here, them down below,
Upside down, them, not we.
Always separate – me.