A colorful display of poverty
by Dang Huy
congeals in the city I remember, surprisingly oblivious
where a fickle sort of beauty dangles like a cord
and key in tightened throats of meager folk.
Starved, they barely persevere as cold, virulent
streets entangle altogether up
one violet skyway decked in iridescent streaks
with golden contrails bled across a
It is glorious for a second as the passive tides
of a dying evening blackens every concrete angle,
sharp and precisely measured up
along those soaring heights of old and newly risen spires
coalesced in grandeur, shadows pitched across
the western world.
Yet, tell them freely; Love—I too, believe
our open eyes deceived of any such substance
or discretion, when all who came before us must
have missed these many tempered bricks,
disregarded under softened tips of small, decadent
fingers playfully run along a cool grey surface.
Then, treading not too kindly, unaware of any
reason for lament
they’ve turned actors in a faultless tale of witless
human beings somehow, yet surely drawn together
closer now than ever. One can almost feel the second
—guessing fill calm waters like a wicked dye poured in
this wanton glass—not empty, not full.
Still, how could I forget
those eager little smiles of brightly lit young faces
breaking to the static tune of a realist point of view?
We do ‘n do, misunderstood at dire lack of even
one true preacher in our midst as an ever-adoring
yellow sun may one day
reminisce these ailing urban walls, felled upon
a shaded hill entrenched in autumn’s kindest graces
when We are going back to the city I remember
I am going where the skyline is familiar.