words I only tell myself

in the city

You are the old immigrants
who arrived with the ancient ships;
drifted in on the wind.

Now you’re living life
on the ledge of a building;
in the drains and gutters;
in the cracks and crevices of walls and pavements.
You make nests of mortar and cement,
glued to the undersides of bridges,
fastened on rooftops.

You used to rely on starlight,
now the golden lights confuse you,
the glass walls reflect your eyes back at you.
You used to need the pull of the tides,
the bracing sea breeze,
but now the buildings will do.

Here, you are forced to
wind your circadian clock to the pulse of the traffic,
huddle around subway air vents in the winter to keep warm.
Here, where you’ve gathered like mayflies to a light,
where the grass is greener,
better fertilized, well-trodden;
where the concrete eats into the forest.

Here, in your city built with ashes and asphalt;
dreams and souls,
you find substitutes for the life your ancestors used to know,
hoping that your descendants won’t know the difference.

And on some nights, you realize that this is the only world you have;
your worldview restricted to a single city.

Your city shines bright,
but it’s just another star
in an infinite universe.