the ship of the city
will bring you.
Flickering shadows
among the filthy
planes; shining
monks lurk in
moments like book
covers. Ochre ends
a foundling must roll
with the garbage
like a trusty skull
in the shadow of the towering
crenellated tower; no
windows but in
things flat as paper.
We are all angling for some-
where better to fold:
there's rapture
to be had at the periphery,
just outside of where
once their gods broke open
into right-
angled, blinding light.
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