Kyle G. Dargan


The glass bottom poem

floats on poured stone

surfaces. The windows

set in its belly

show you nothing—

no arks, ancient relics,

or species paved over. No

more reason to bury here.

People are smallest

shadows of the city. The city

realizes the city and must

forget itself to the ground

to dream its hereafter,

sparkling. See the Pipes

of Yesterday—that is all

the poem can offer.

If you must see ruin, glance

around then step out quickly.

Remember, resole your feet

with the largest notes you carry

lest you disturb the city’s

voracious slumber.