Come shouts of many people
through streets of the daytime
city; trees are arrested by the
fetid air. We wrap the buildings
with our words.

Who will put a value on our bridges
or find fuel for the wayward ship
that has broken ice at the denizen
poles?

Terraces of our unrelenting memory
topple a stand of old, fruitless
trees; the city is re-made on the
plains where the dancers have taken
lovers; where the metal frame of
things are covered.

Ponds where the heat is stored,
where the salt is tasteless and raw;
light runs parallel to the migrating
birds; where heat and fire lick the
wind that blows between the unwanted
trees. Old dreams come here to perish.

Once the master of fools they appear
chagrined and bury themselves in the
heavy water where not a sound is raised
on their behalf; only silence and the
watchful eyes of the predator.