walk

unnamed city streets

in this city of the dead

encircled

by wrought iron gates

inside this city of the living

walking the daylight air

such rustlings! and yet

how many faces

(count them)

in the streets of the living

already turned

or turning

to stone

mountains open

and ants and myth

decay

these frail tents

so much is and is

otherwise glinting

flows

ever turning

the head of a pin

to vistas and volumes

within

but for colour and its

frenzy

(lifts and whirls!) us by

but for the song

and its long

avenues of shade and stillness

but for what

we carry against

the story

time sequesters

earth delays