There is a space in the vanishing city in which
I must escape, a space that reeks of memories past,
of a restless city still constructing its Bronze Belt.
I come to distort the flow of such a space—
time bent like a winding river, and the lone
city stands as a forest between the river and time.
I, too, move like trash blowing in the polluted winds
of the vanishing city. Do you see me dancing?
As I sway with the flow of time, as I move like that fire
that once darkened the White City with smoke—
in what timeline shall the Bronze Belt exist,
in a city that dresses and redresses itself
in the garments of fiction? What hex shall you
cast on yourself next? What runes shall cause
that transcendent ecstasy to acidify at our touch?
The gravedigger awaits your response, I too, await
the sweet nothings you are soon to whisper. There’s a
tree in that forest, it is located at the closer part of
the bank that joins the river. A date is ruggedly craved
with our names on it.