These are the first:
fifteen grey spires
that pin the monotone horizon
of the low-lying cityscape
like an autopsy on God.
As the sun mouths a shimmering 'O',
milky white, a sheet of dew
softly overlays all legible time.
At similar height, a tower block,
overwritten with scaffold,
undergoes a surface cleaning
that misses its central spine -
the single working lift
that binds its tenants with a tone
of bleach and piss.
Inside, paramedics hold
their breath, as steel doors close
on a rigid, seated woman in her sixties.
A ghost, rubbed out in a single sentence,
a week or more ago.
Behind these daily chores,
the city seems unfathomable.
Somewhere, beyond or beneath,
nested on concrete,
at the base of the tower,
a blackbird learns to mimic a car alarm,
re-writing insecurities,
wiping over the morning's song
like a palimpsest.