You, In the City
Also, to be frank, I like dense cities best and care about them most.-Jane Jacobs
The thrum of traffic
sways you down,
lays you gentle
on concrete. Look,
the stars are scattered,
in street lamps,
the glow of signs,
our moon a puddle.
and that openness
inside you rests,
sated with the longings
of thousands.
Out of Many, One
Even if you had the time to write it all down, you couldn't tell the story of the city as an endless series of individual biographies.-Steven Johnson
It's not a hundred story building
sinking beneath its own weight.
It's running your hand
over a banister, paint flaking,
pulse racing as you realize
story upon story touched there,
each following its own plot line,
each hand another protagonist,
each protagonist you,
and each you loved incompletely.
It’s not a hundred stories, building
the skyline, lights in each window.
It’s running my hand, where yours
touched and held this banister,
and in that space we overlap
a hundred pages between us.
Write It Down, Please
Just in case you get hit by a bus,
momentarily airborne,
papers flying out of your satchel
like ticker-tape confetti,
or maybe you don't own a satchel
and it's gum wrappers
and a bottle of vodka crying
big gulps of life into the cement.
Whatever spills out of you,
a rain of loose coins,
pitter-pattering and rolling
into the gutters, down alleyways,
write it down, please.
Pick up your scattered papers;
sit, legs dangling in the sidewalk
the traffic cool against your feet.
Shuffle
The city is a tipsy lady
twisting her fingers
through her hair,
her bracelet the moon.
When she rises,
the streets sway
in half-time,
and I need to stop
thinking about you,
walking towards me
in a crowd, your fingers
twirling a pencil,
your face, the moon
rising and the streets
sag around you
and I can't stop thinking
the city is drunk
on your bare wrists,
more lovely than
the tendons of the moon.
Transient
I want to open my arms wide
and spin, until the skyscrapers
blur into a halo of i beams,
steel, and reinforced concrete;
and in this dizziness,
the wash of voices
and acrid wafts of smoke
swirl into streamers,
each thread more vivid
than that look in your eye,
when you close your hand
around a spark of light.