We tore through the stucco city--
it was the one full of adobe cliffs 
and falling, I can't imagine I'm 
the only one who dreams it. It's the color
of lemon juice, or the sun, and 
the architecture's Eschered. The sky
is warm, pale, full of motes and beams.
The largest structure was inhabited 
by Conspirators, and they had tricks
for slipping in and out of light: like wafers
seen from the thin angle, they obfuscated
skillfully in the buttery daylight. We broke in, 
a team of us, with none of their methods. 
We'd steal their precious manuscripts! 
The elevator shafts were silver and blue glasses,
gaseous and scientific, slow and pistoned,
easier to climb than I would have thought.

I love to climb, and the city was made for that. 
You can tell it is on an Island by the colors--when
light is gold and glowing warm, and whipping structures
seem made of brass when they are sand, or jade
when they are wooden, then you know you are 
encsonced at all sides by an endless green sea, 
and a shoreline of shipwrecks, and a cannibal jungle.

All we could find was a song about love in New York.
Katrina sang it and we listened. I knew it already,
but not that it was the key. Their secret was,
that life was already perfect, without knowing 
any secrets. Katrina and Daisy suicided, we thought,
on the treacherous way down the towers--
I turned and they had fallen so far 
that the depths were misted.
We accepted it; if you can't live with perfection,
why live at all? I and the others made our way
into the desert, to the fields beyond, to live.

[I also dreamed I had saved him
from the terrors of childhood;
but that is secret, and I 
am not supposed to know.]

Eventually the morning light crawled 
through the window and cut my eyes open.
I remembered, and I made myself
the sweetest cup of coffee I have ever drank.
And when I looked outside, the city
was the color of lemon juice, or the sun.
Soon I will show it to you again.



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