Dream of the City, Perfection

((Photograph from artfulalliterations.tumblr.com.))

The city loves
the smallest spaces
and the fingers moving
from brick to rail.

In hallowed rain
the streets are pathways
of fluid flow, the human
machine a vessel through which
production and beauty
are exposed.

I’d like to think
sitting on a tree branch
over Pound Street
at night — with the sound
of the Pugelet Bar —
resounds the spirit
of the city, gives
country men reasons
for remaining in the dark.

Yet, it’s queer (to see)
how men drink for fun,
the city grounds for
merriment in passing.
And suspension seems
respectful when watching
those who tread concrete
to find the human heart.

In the city, trees grow
for hope; men love with
truth; and all are equal
in the web of streets.