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
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
our scape of sullen silver,
only to be reminded of how lonely
they really are.