We get progressively more lost in a world that grows half alive after sun set.
The darker alleys of the city are all brightly lit
and the places where we hid, before,
have all been suddenly killed.
The ground shakes after orange footsteps
parade around in unison.
The last throes of the sun invite an early autumn.
All the lanes that used to belong to lovers and drunks and thieves
have been overtaken.
They are all lit under divine lights;
divine providence reigning on the minds of sinners.
We search for little spaces of darkness, remaining within the unfurled wings of the city,
places where sin is still welcome.
The city seems to be tired of divinity.
It’s waiting to fly.
The shadow of its wings will lift
and we will remain buried under the burning lights,
orange, and obscure.


I was reading a poem last night, when the moon disappeared.
The entire world felt emptier for a while.
But the streets
were still lit.
And the ground forever shook under the weight of an absence.
The invisibles marched, the dead marched, the dying marched.
The deformed, the detached, the dejected marched.
We marched.
The city, before it took flight,
came alive for a while.
The half life of the dying sun held up the flying city.
We mourned the loss of the moon.
The moon mourned the loss of the earth,
and sin.


If the world doesn’t starve
and people still make love
making forgetful people that run and play and forget.
And steal from each other and themselves.
If the moon returns and the tides begin, again
and the darkness of blind alleys emerge from under the dull glows of night lamps,
where poets drink and drunks write,
and divinity sits,
watching over the city, nesting over a new world.
If the seasons walk back
and fall into haphazard patterns
that never and always make sense;
songs will be written again.





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