WHOVILLE

Only a few days
later—skyfuls of quiet shadow
brood without menace

over the half-empty
city, it's darker panes
of high-rise glass, ashier

than usual limestone edifices, ruddier
expressionless bricks.
Semantic knowledge

of comfort and joy
(comfort and joy) languishes
in primary-colored dumpsters

behind each closed shop,
emboldening rats—
while stickyheaded pigeons stand

hoo-hooing on the rooftops,
all huddled together
around the true meaning—

like next of kin
gathered in a
dim hallway somewhere

who aren't sure
how to use their voices
or what

they're supposed to do
with their hands while they
wait.