72 floors up
through sheets of pristine glass, cold
as cut from glacier,
the neon city lights are fire,
burning a receding horizon to ash,
swirling snow static,
legs dangling, lips draped with bubblegum,
fingertips depressing keys,
bit by bit arriving at the erasure
of the virtual,
a corporation of thieves.
she executes; post-execution
she breathes.