The City

Beneath the fluttering chatter
of rushed voices,

against the current 
of winds swept by waiters

or by women who look down
when they walk,
is a place you may go,

across the river, which tonight is 
speckled with boats
and washed with glinting lights.

This place is hushed and sacred. We call it
a shore. 
And as you look

across, above the masts, you’ll see
what we call

a skyline. It is the city at dusk, 
the buildings standing stoutly 
next another, loud against the impenetrable night.
We call them sky scrapers, and for good reason.

They are striving, reaching, but forever 
missing the mark of heaven. They gather here
each day,

our scape of sullen silver, 
only to be reminded of how lonely

they really are.

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