Her grief was a church bell ringing
from deep within a forgotten lake,
the resonances silent, yet bringing
shivers to the surface with their wake.
Split in half as if by pizza cutter,
the moon glazed yellow with garlic butter.
Is that the glint of vigilant eyes
or the glistening dew upon the grass?
Beneath the moon-crowned October skies
I approach, I pause, I ponder, I pass.
It is an uncomfortable paradox
as I walk these busy city blocks
to think the city was made by Man
for Man, yet in its concrete span
there comes an alienation for us,
whether on a crowded tarmac bus
or in a dumpster-jumbled alleyway
of both trash and waifs, heaped where they lay,
or down by a lonely nighttime lamppost,
washed out in neon light, feeling as a ghost
in skyscrapers, with or without people,
or beneath the pigeon-plastered steeple
beside the graveyard, or by the park
where the burnt-out souls gather, dusk to dark,
or down in the rattling subway station
and at all levels of elevation—
by making a home for the human race
we have only made an inhuman place.