I sing the song of the city
and its patchwork of pavements,
where ladies and wannabes
flaunt their fashion, their state
in the hours before everyone
starts to run late.
Strongmen and yes-men,
with their hearts open, arms closed,
stride alongside silver hounds
of varying sleekness, speed,
and stage of decay.
This time of year in the city,
the sparse trees bring their flowers
for all to see, and they fall
in varying stages of purity.
And I pick one, or two, or three
for my lover and me
hoping I could gather enough
before the kalachuchi has had enough
of my mystery . . . or perhaps
it understood me?
Towers on the high-rise are
raised to blinding lights
and they gaze with unseeing eyes
upon the spiderwebs, the intricacies
of raveling directions:
a patchwork of hotspots
for heated histories.
YOU ARE READING
reconsideration.
PoetryWhat a thrill to be a thought: thin as a film strip, thrust into a cacophony. Yet it's funny how I've met my loneliness as a friend. I've searched for my soul in heated hands and histories, token treasures and stolen homes. All that came was a hollo...
