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This is Not My City

 

This sleepless City collapses

continuously,

crumbles and folds

continuously,

into itself.

 This is a city of sketches,

of gestures, traces, inklings—

all ghosts.

 I see

 flickering in my eye,

shapeless shadow figures slumped in subway cars

                                            like sacks of potatoes.

 They linger…

Blurry blots and blips half-formed,

thwarted, abject cries declaring desperately

I was here! We were here!

 These little pictures projected are glue,

a stagnant, spun-cotton haze of history that glazes the City.

They are the difference between leveling and layering,

between faking and feeling.

 Honest and odd of mind, I see those specs that shimmer sadly—

gloomy sparkles scattered on these pages,

settled, present, here. 

 

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