What future for a city
When the seers become the seared?
When the Looking Glass is lost?
and blind to our disfigurement we crash on.
History chooses not to watch;
She turns her face from the ugliness of our excess
Perhaps tomorrow will bring a tissue
To wipe the paint from this old moll’s face?
What future for me
When my edges become exaggerated?
When my roller-coaster has so much height
and so little anchorage.
Has calamity become inevitability?
Or will Humility’s voice restore to me the day
I first heard back the echo of the street
in the dark alleys of my own heart.
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