Poetry is our city

Poetry is out city
where I strolled the streets
alone and left you to gather the feathers
donated inflight

poetry is our city,
there are no walls and entry is free
yet the corners will not be discovered
no matter  how much the tourists pay

brine, blood, metaphor
poetry is our city, our son
unnamed yet to my laziness
inheriting all your failures

with little luck and fertile sand
we make higher towers
for the late watch
and the easy bread, made without winning

know this, my lucky one
that this act of writing towards your image
makes poetry our city
shared, split to fit our devices

Poetry is our city, far from the harbor
pregnant with foreigners
birthing a local with every labor
not broken, not prolific
just genuine, a city we own.