Tonight
it will be just the city and I.
Just a street lamp dripping dew
and giving me silver and gold light
tonight.
No moon face to remind me
of beauties far away,
of loves unattainable.
No shattered shards of space-stuff
to dirty my view of the sky.
No constellations in the shape
of faces we mourn.
And no angels. No.
The choir is at rest.
It will be just the city and I,
and a blank slate sky.
The hills send me fog to touch.
The sky sends the rain.
They sing to me till I wake in the morning
when my city will be new again.
My city is new today.
It has forgotten, for a time,
its heartbreak. Its loss.
It has spent its allotted time weeping.
It has bathed itself inside a moon house
made of thunderstorms and mist.
It has flushed out
even its most private of crevices
and stepped out renewed.
My city is pure again.
The dirt of its streets
has been washed away.
Not simply swept aside but driven
out by spontaneous rivers.
Driven out past the hills,
carried over the valleys,
and swept out to sea.
My city's houses are still damp.
This is alright with us.
Let the warmth of home dry them out.
Let our bare feet feel mud again.
Let the bucket tip
and the mop sop and soak
and sweep out even the insides.
Let the city be clean today.
Let the parks know
that they haven't been forgotten.
Let the grass be cut and mixed
with warm breezes and sunshine.
And of the perfume made,
let it be the bouquet of
just-budding flowers
from full, verdant trees.
Only, do not place the oil
behind the ears of the city
or between the breasts of the city.
These secret places are for us
that have found them intimately.
Do not let it drip down arms like juice
from the fruit of your neighbor's yard.
Do not let it spray along cheeks like juice
from fruit of your own yard.
Let it waft, instead, across the body
and through the streets.
If the city is as leaving Eden;
innocent, naked, and pure
but just for today;
then let this perfume be as entering Nod:
east of nowhere,
wandering everywhere.
it will be just the city and I.
Just a street lamp dripping dew
and giving me silver and gold light
tonight.
No moon face to remind me
of beauties far away,
of loves unattainable.
No shattered shards of space-stuff
to dirty my view of the sky.
No constellations in the shape
of faces we mourn.
And no angels. No.
The choir is at rest.
It will be just the city and I,
and a blank slate sky.
The hills send me fog to touch.
The sky sends the rain.
They sing to me till I wake in the morning
when my city will be new again.
My city is new today.
It has forgotten, for a time,
its heartbreak. Its loss.
It has spent its allotted time weeping.
It has bathed itself inside a moon house
made of thunderstorms and mist.
It has flushed out
even its most private of crevices
and stepped out renewed.
My city is pure again.
The dirt of its streets
has been washed away.
Not simply swept aside but driven
out by spontaneous rivers.
Driven out past the hills,
carried over the valleys,
and swept out to sea.
My city's houses are still damp.
This is alright with us.
Let the warmth of home dry them out.
Let our bare feet feel mud again.
Let the bucket tip
and the mop sop and soak
and sweep out even the insides.
Let the city be clean today.
Let the parks know
that they haven't been forgotten.
Let the grass be cut and mixed
with warm breezes and sunshine.
And of the perfume made,
let it be the bouquet of
just-budding flowers
from full, verdant trees.
Only, do not place the oil
behind the ears of the city
or between the breasts of the city.
These secret places are for us
that have found them intimately.
Do not let it drip down arms like juice
from the fruit of your neighbor's yard.
Do not let it spray along cheeks like juice
from fruit of your own yard.
Let it waft, instead, across the body
and through the streets.
If the city is as leaving Eden;
innocent, naked, and pure
but just for today;
then let this perfume be as entering Nod:
east of nowhere,
wandering everywhere.
