When the city becomes metaphysical I ask the question

by Kevin Kiely

this capitulation of the spirit among cityscape
and the banks are empty, lit from inside
so poke and digit for your virtual cash

as evening goes slow in the sky
and glacial windows reflect the traffic
trees are neglected and corpselike

where people spark electric
behind their set–piece faces towards
the bottle towers where it is spoken if unsaid

to our eyes by others over our lifetime
in our eyes and we feel like chess pieces
on diagonal streets stealing dreams

and done questing until tomorrow
and the next moment as our train slides
in before halting; it is the cosmic church–window

sunset slanting across bridges, parapets and lights
flooding sideways from darkened streets
and clouds are larger as we rehearse being brittle

delicate, ultimately immobile and the public clocks
are lying, imagine yourself a hero as these tragic clouds
redden, for if you drew in the ribbon of river

toppling the bridges, knocking over the piles
it is chaos more than calm behind each moment
when we can either endure and bear it or love it

Night settles in metaphysical jewelry
on the obvious buildings as the stars look
infinite and we are merely dressed, yet naked

various, dangerous, famous, anonymous, whole
broken, assuming intoxicated roles and you can
vouch to this fact that it is a lifelong relationship

with the dead who ride Jacob’s Ladders of escalators
where the solitary stare and ask as they float
in downward spirals a living genesis and census

alpha to omega; the locked museums hold less
than memories replaying flashbacks and the scenario
is revised fixing the original to a newer version for tonight