The City State

Remember in Corinth, walking home from the piers, wet
in the aftermath of a squall? Through the meat packing streets,
under bigger hooks blood slick on the sandals, across

the garment district: bone buttons, stronger cord or—what
more did you need?—hard rolls, then fish and flowers in
descending sectors, aspirin and batteries in your arms,

for the apartment. Remember answering machines? The gods,
be they pleased, of whichever specific needs, accommodating
singly. Barnaby, after the tone, this is the guy from the grove.

Peaches are in. Snap beans (ping in the bowl). Good surprises
if you hike up into the higher coppices with me in mind.
Along the manifold fulfillment of local plans, outlanders

often strode through hollering, singing the uncertain song,
and so we expected we knew the words—any deities
to propitiate, la la—when, in the melody familiar, a man

and a youth drew us to the window. Good news they called up,
delivery. Emissaries broadcasting a smirk, saying what still
from the sill we could only oversee. Remember how soon

we found none of the old options applied. Talk. Listen. Door.
I do this one thing all day long and so do you, I know now, first
Corinthians. I squat on the fire escape for better connection.





From A Several World (Nightboat Books, 2014). Reprinted with the permission of the author.