say what you will while tending to the
vein which once supplied this city when it was

itself still, needing a hobby to simulate
ruins, now decadent, now depraved, so
people kept their wheels spinning west to east,
decipher[ing] brochures produced whe n
jellyfish loomed (no more), who
dream[ed], who knows, of shoes dyed to match linen?
currents could carry through tweed or herringbone or gingham,
tapestries unwoven when the racetrack closed down yet
spring still hid the skeletons of sycamores,
lip of redbuds and stone walls bronzed by guardians still circling 
temples where whatever used to 
happen got forgotten some seasons ago.

after “Atlantis”