March 8, 2007

London is different:
things happened here. New nations
were sketched out like street portraits

by musty men fumbling for decanters
in rooms with ceilings higher
than provincial skies.

I am walking with the moments
of stilted insects
who saw the globe as just another nest
to weave the rest inside.

It goes on; faces
shimmer and set in mind, paper, gold,
marble. It rolls through the streets

gathering dust and moss,
dilates past the skyline,
dream whirled inside like boxers.


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