this city I have fashioned
of clay as I discovered it --
its voice I shaped as I listened
to the sweet angel aria,
broken mirror and honest.
it is mine, this place...
a promise I whispered at conception --
and here we are,
standing like children on those same syllables.
listen,
the sound of creation.
wonder, hm?
that it is not your song,
that this place is not also your own?
--
all of us train angels
transfixed in communion by the holy Real outside our window:
like india ink the city spills
into God's exhaled sky and reaches for the half-moon
like a newborn for anything.
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