You can put a city on a mountain if you build a road to get there.
This is called infrastructure.
American colonizers did exactly that.
That's how they say my city was born, though it was there long before
              anyone whipped out a compass or scale ruler.
I'm not just writing again of my nostalgia.
How beautiful it is when fog descends upon new architecture.
The moon, glimpsed through splayed fingers of pine, is also beautiful.
Tinted sepia, it could be a scene from an old movie.
What disappeared is not a metaphor for anything.
What disappeared is gone.
Cacao growers worry about their withered farms.
I've been reading about extractive geologies and global expansion.
Thieves take copper from electrical substations and construction lots.
My neighbor complained that their copper rain chain was stolen.
People wonder how much gold and silver is left in the world.
The brightest thing in my house right now is an orange in the fruit bowl.
I don't need to sink my teeth into it to tell that it's real.
At some point, we will eat it. 

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