Something like osmosis

I write 
to my city of many lights
to my city of darkness
to its aging body of people living and breathing as shadows.

I write to its midnights (when my city quietly walks to wet its feet in the river)
as it erupts silently as STD's on the countenance of hookers,
I write to their naked breast that offer belonging for pennies.

Sometimes I write to its dawn (when it quietly travels back to the houses of worship)
to the usual busy-ness of newspaper vendors.

To all the unfamiliar edges that ruefully hold the hands of bordering towns ( as one holds onto lost lovers)

I write to my city that sits by the river to meet the rain,

When it bleeds the past slowly.
I write to its pickling old self
To all the things that have disappeared from its body
To its coconut trees
and the home of crows
(The deep ugly hoarse 'caw caw' in the afternoons)
To its rivers and swaying boats
The refuge of mongrels
To their constant barking at night.
To the constant vigil of a poet searching for closure of many sorts.

And to all vacant places that long for a home.

Reviews

[Corset]

to all the nooks, crannies and small crevasses that make up the city of Psyche, alls its bright and all it's dark streets, to the shadows that hover there, to the miles that chase or lead, to all that built the city and all the the things the city leaves behind.