The Ground of Our City

by Austin McCarron

The ground of our city
is blinder than shadows
of spring, but
richer than sand with eyes.

On the desert river we see
widows of light, on dangerous
journeys, holding plans of dust,
where the music of machines
is greater than clouds of song.

Trampled underfoot, in parks and
spaces, the bones
of servants, slaves of time, hidden
like water in baths of eternal stone.

On this Sunday, walking around the
city coast, the wound of history is dry,
patched up with leaves of blood, the
sun of trances, art of religious voices.
Flanked by possessions, we describe
our emptiness, but
grasp nothing of solitude, selling in the
market our coats of expensive flames.

The sweltering summer contains carvings
of our flesh.  Bitterly, we recover from
the savagery of loss, our mystical ruins,
torn out of
the city like dreams in the womb of life.