Towards Inwood, where it all narrows down
by Morgan Michaels
(that northern Sounion where the birds go)
fusing to one feathery punct.
Yes, yes, yes,
as, in fancy,
do the marblestone shafts of a Greek
colonnade, converging miles overhead, amidst chips
of fiery, cold-washed star.
Clearly, the Gods abandoned you
with little ceremony,
altogether and in a huff, my City,
as they do preferred abodes- why, I wonder?
Traffic? Demographics? Too much daylight,
spit and gum, kids?
complaining the light was richer and cheaper in Venice,
in Paris, and, that 'frankly, it isn't worth the rent'.
So they go.
To find another heaven.
But we stay and wretchedly...