Everyone is getting wet
walking beside the day,
their eyelids touching the city,
ghosts returned to their prison.
The cells in their chests
open mouth eloquently
as if to chew the sun's hand
poking into life's harsh cloth
like office pins but only
lost centuries fly out, dusty
with lying on shelves
for too long; hymns,
stiff & raw, body used
to lying within straitjackets.
Outside, the city, a fresh
young body of paint
& glass eyes smiles,
raised high as hands in protest,
placards welcoming guests,
who blossom wetly on the asphalt,
slowly but everyone has wild eyes
behind sun shades & the city
seems heavy with batons
careening & landing hard
as smithereens, speeding everything
towards a resolution— grinding
stone in the fist of the homeless,
a feast for fire.