The façade is a crossword of cubes,
every balcony a question with no vowels.

Someone poured concrete through a kaleidoscope
and forgot to wipe off the dreams.

Windows stack like error messages,
pink, cyan, lilac: SYSTEM FEELS TOO MUCH.

The building hangs from the sky by black outlines,
dripping vertical stripes of yesterday’s weather.

Corridors run in wrong directions on purpose,
so your worries get lost between floor 7½ and 9.

A yellow beam decides to be a sentence,
underlining nothing, everything, the whole block.

Brutalism here is not grey—it shouts in markers,
graffiti invented by the architect herself.

Inside, walls rehearse their angles like dancers,
sharp elbows, soft colors, no apologies.

From a distance the house is a glitch,
up close it is a chorus of corners singing:

WE ARE HEAVY, WE ARE LIGHT,
WE ARE THE CITY TRYING TO REMEMBER HOW TO PLAY.