sidebrow

City Fragment

When you enter the city in the dark you enter with your life in your hands. When you enter the city at dawn, where then is your life? In your throat? The city will sing for you. At dawn, a golden faintness, rooftops hum. A glimpse of river. A pattern of gulls. But in darkness, through a grove of trees, alone, voiceless, or talking to yourself, in your own ear, in another’s, the fog, the wet grass, a fox, moving through darkness, through the grove of trees, the grass, the wet grass, then cobbles are under your feet. Where did the wet grass end? When was the moment at which the city had you?