To a city
looks over a river that thinks is the sea
itself. What pride is there in having teeth
as crooked as your paved streets. You
torture everything with your calm, your
shallow streams, your trust in time.
You are that stinky river, all of its salt,
its brine. And disappearance, you die
by the West with infected pigeons
flying as far as your mournful prow
buried in the pleasures of your chosen fate
celebrating this life's lasting damage
a peninsular incapability to mate.
Posts
