In my city
If you lie on the roof
of a sixty-something skyscraper to stargaze
you’d have the proof
from the stars, stray and ablaze
that you are still as insignificant.
In my city
If you drive on the bridge over the sea
that separates cities and mountains
you’d see
and wonder at the waves, whelming and wanton,
and not at the beams that hold up the bridge.
In my city
If you walk along and look at the coast
from your house of wood and metal and brick
you’d want to boast
that the water tries to worship and lick
your feet and your hands and your soul.
In my city
If you notice the electric tower rising in the skies
across the highway, the lonely street
you’d recognize
an emerald creeper climbing, not discreet
unaware of electricity, but thriving on it.
In my city
If you stand on the beach and see the sun drowning in the sea
and behind you there is a row of commercial buildings
you’d agree
that the dying, red sunlight seems to be gilding
the glass windows and the metal girders.