(we are each other)
|
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 |