To discover a city’s skyscape could be made

prismatic—those hues altering
steel & glass & treeline & cloud

until city clarified, meant made
of light, meant palette, took on

that impossible virtue color
shades over every moving &

unmoving thing—was to find
anew any place. Nearness may be

an unlikely intimacy, but how in that
city you’d look there & keep looking

—the closest to. Maybe a gallery of
seeing. Someday an exhibit

curated of want, casting iridescent
every ordinary enough.

 

 

 

 

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