parcels
The Blue City

by Anne Heide

For sleeping only, we would be simple.

Damp would wrap us over, make us quiet, and stumble us off.

For sleep we would be trance-walking.

But City snarls by waking our windows open.

City stuffs our waking tight with sticking cotton.

Howls City wake and be my companions.



City was the first to arrive, grappling with beaded paint against the dirt.

We were the first sticky mess gripped.

O glowrious us.

And every time we look at the ceiling, City finds us blind.