What wound is this of yours
that you should keep worrying it?
I like it. It tastes of tears & soil, like a boiled beet.
These aren’t even your ancestors.
But that’s half the attraction, isn’t it?
It’s like a revolution unfolding on the internet:
close at hand yet comfortably far away.
The anguish. The comradery.
But this city belongs to the dead.
All cities belong to the dead.
This one has more trees than most.
And I love any tourist spot
where the residents stay hidden
& don’t ruin our game of make-believe.
What game is that?
I sit still as a stone until words emerge.
They form themselves into epigrams on my forehead.
How do you win?
Someone lays a piece of slate at my feet.