The City is Left

Centum of African Eden, how you
that certain bowl of dust fled, shut
the shudders and flew down the sash.
You miscreants of escapades.  They,
the founder of us, created their city
into shadows submerged and rubbled
as the first Babylon was born in felled
arms of chance, bleeding from draught
and famine, bruised from malice and
war.  Two Greek feet with no body.  I
drank the black of river’s flow, that
peeled myst from mountain snow, my
utrus so filled, Colorado mountaineers,
born of runners from the snow.  All the
great broken cities, born a death from
its daughters’ and sons’ dissent, why
we lived, why we nomad a rue straight
through that dark ebb, cities dusten clad.

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