The city is our augur-
each discarded chicken bone,
each fallen tooth
a whisper of prophecy.
And the predicted continues
to stir in small breezes
which shift the shape of bones
and clear the cool sand
from the leeways of the street.
This is ever-known and always whispering.
And our feet crush pebbles and bones
which speak to our destinations.
We are both silent and raucous
in our speech. The city cannot hear.
Parents hide behind themselves
in the cool summer dusk.
The children wait for laughter.
So many people going about
so much “business”, we forget
that our world is business. Our feet
and hands the wheels that drive us.
and vivid walks by the trail leading
between our small homes.
And the spaces between us
seem empty, yet we see not
the stones and grass
and discarded feathers
from frightened birds.
The spaces of the city are always full always waiting.
Sometimes at night I dream of clotheslines
stretched over the Atlantic. Swept
about by sea-spray, our disguises
flapping like flags in the wind
for the sea-captains
and their lonesome crews.
To be a part of the city is to be lost at sea.
I walk between the strings
as they sketch outlines
of streets and buildings, of tunnels
and parks and metro stations.
Each hanging shirt filled with the voice of wind;
each shirt full of the stuff of ourselves.
We are empty shirts navigating by the north star.
Ghosts left of some elusive stuff
awaiting the day to be reborn.