Friday, July 1, 2016

ELEGY

Peculiarly, the city 
you love

is dead already. 

Twenty-four seven,
all its streets are haunted.

Ghosts of whole neighborhoods 
(as you remember them

last time you were there) still
wriggle

you suppose—

like stanzas 
fuzzing their meaning

for each 
new observer, each 

new pair of shoes
moved

by the same 
unseen (absolute) forces. 

This time, 
It's all up 
to you

but only because it never was 

before. 
Can one side 
of one conversation

somehow
affect 
them all now? Oh

well, you tell
yourself, you
get it—this used to be called

spooky action—
at 

every 
proximity.

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