Hiding

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