The staircase forgets to go anywhere,
it just juts out into the lemon sky and waits.

Each step is a frozen trumpet note,
blue, then bluer, then almost a question.

Brutalism usually says: FUNCTION FIRST,
but here the handrail laughs and leaves mid-sentence.

You walk up, you walk down,
you arrive at the same turquoise doubt.

Shadows draw extra steps that don’t exist,
emergency exits for overqualified daydreams.

The wall is a misprinted blueprint,
scribbles arguing with the ruler.

Somewhere a lift is offended:
why build stairs for clouds?

But the building shrugs in thick black outlines,
whispers: I am not a way to somewhere,

I am a staircase to the possibility
that nowhere might be enough today.