Unimagination

This city is unimagination,

The scattered stones are not

Tired polygons, cold stars,

The greased skies don't gather

Into debit-cards for cheap seas,

The highways don't drop

Clumsy stencils on city blocks,

And the market is not lit in

Menthol bonfires.

 

You are nowhere near;

A poet's eyes with his heart,

In some bag you carry

With forgotten practice.