Cities, I Still Love You
There’s a picture of our old life in our wallet shoved deep
down into the basement. Where did it come from, someone says,
feeling the signature of wings in her chest.
The monument: We cleaned ourselves in its genesis,
and left it up because, come on like it wasn’t hollowed,
a spectacle not meant for the museums we start like families.
O this pittsburgh with its hallucination of throwing a drink
into the west’s face. That’s where I keep hiding you.
We got cornered and our pockets were turned out.
Our hours are borrowed, a delirium no one can name
flees into us, so we pay and pay.
Every face is someone else we know and as true as the exile
you woke into once, before you even had a chance to visit.