She City

You are an entire city, all
its songs and fashions, its steeping
and haze, its bay and
the steel traversing
it, and as the people come
to stand at the tower
jutting from your breast they
stare out at the houses
touching each other inappropriately
in broad daylight, at buildings
waiting for that next great
quake to turn them all
to rubble, to have themselves
shook, swaying above
the streets as a windowed
slinky, the calamity of pots and piping
humans breaking in their chest, the
frictions rising at their foundations
until their skeletons
snap and their waterlines
rupture in a great collapse, but as
much they do adore all
of this, they dream most
feverishly of the orgy
that will follow the collapse, the intermingling
dusts, to cover you in ash, to be rebuilt
as something entirely the
same, to wait again to fall.


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