More on: city

I returned to the imperfect city to retire
the myths I mistook for love.
Coins glinted in imperial fountains.
Flowers awaited a protagonist’s hand.

Sometimes, to comfort myself, I think of myself as a city, not a woman, but a city that can be rebuilt again.

If righteousness remains, it is moonlight glinting on the mica-flecked steps and waxed lips of barren concrete planters as midnight skaters’ kickflips grind oblivion near the courthouse sign’s annunciation where stragglers huddle in a delinquent arc against the wind’s cold dispensation of Guilty  and Not in which any joke like How do you  make God…