The City
The city is a topography
Of our confessions -
And the streets run as rampant as our fears,
which pave the way to tomorrow,
a piste of the old.
A street sign sighs,
prosily,
a serinette to our feet,
which follow the beaten paths
of the many meek.
A window blinks
but nobody pays it any attention
because -
why would you assume there’s a good explanation?
And the muzzling dew keeps our faces down.
And here we all hold the outside
close to our livers –
ecumene
in a discount suitcase, so that
the buildings that hold us seem like friends.
