this is not
the real city
the real address
where belief left its
indecipherable notes
scattered around its
bag of promises
this is not
the sunrise
or sunset
that bookends
the real day
the one of
battlefields
uncrossed tracks
and impenetrable
windows
reflecting only the
dark circle in the
middle of all things
this is not
the radio
of the past
the thoroughfares
of rain or
the door to
anything
at all
this is not any god
or ticket to the language
anyone spoke before
emerging fully formed
from the lost fields
of the sea
this is a place of hiding
the place downtown
where the stairs descend
from the street
a room mistakenly
called infinity
where treble clefs
are stored
and foundations of
imagination lie
unwrapped from the
brittle parchment
thats made of vibrations
and glows silver and gold
this is an enclave
enclosed by screens
of particles arranging
and rearranging
themselves
until forming a
pattern
that may or
may not deserve
to be called life
this is the
hiding place
the place of fog
on a ground of smoke
this is where you
stay alive
and this is where
you remain
in memory
long after
the door
to surprise
swings open
and shut
in one fluid
motion
by Howard Gipstein
Copyright © 2022 by Howard Gipstein