from Sarah Lang's The Work of Days
[The City has drawn a blank. How big]
The City has drawn a blank. How big
you are; a tarmac in the cool summer.
You pretend to love them all. Let
is a word like a creek in spring.
We are strangers; there are ways
to lie. There are trees, there are
trees, there are trees. The wind
does many things. A Hungarian sign
is not unlike your mouth. I never claimed
gravity, strength. From the left, a cot
has great significance. Like the city
we squeeze in tight for a photograph.