The city’s
metaphysics
Under the street
gutter gratings,
under the musty
brick basements,
under moist roots
of the lindentree avenues
and park lawns:
The nerve fibres
of telephone cables.
the hollow veins
of the gas pipes.
Sewers.
From the sky-high
human alps of the east
from behind their
spirea the town-house fronts of the west
the same invisible
links of iron and copper
connect us
together.
No one can can
hear the telephone cables’ crackling life.
No one can hear
the gas pipes’ sick coughing down in the depths.
No one can hear
the sewers thunder with sludge and stench
hundreds
of miles in the dark.
The city’s
iron-clad intestines
are at work.
But up in the
daylight there you’re dancing with flaming
footsoles over the
asphalt, and you’ve silk against the white eye
of your navel and
a new coat in the sunshine
Somewhere up there
in the light I too stand and see how
the cigarette’s
blue soul flutters like some chaste angel
through the
chestnut’s leaves up towards eternal life.
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