There, that is where she resides
She floats there
amid a sea of shit and refuse,
coursing subcutaneous
in the veins of the city.
On her back perhaps,
arms outstretched
in mockery of our familiar savior,
her cool nails dredging slicks
she weaves her garland crown.
Glowing hollowly pale in manhold moonlight,
phosphorescent in greenblack mire,
call her mystery —
she is the soul of the city.
Devoid of her magic
we are ravenous,
pick clean this
festering carcass,
claws of overriding reason.
You will come to her
again in the palpable silence
of latenight city,
amid the empty howls
of nowhere dogs
bristling at the uneasy
sit of night,
drawn by her gentle haunt
murmuring through the grates,
a match to the silent rhythm of your soul
you will know it’s time.
Embraced by the rotting scent
staining forever your reasoned whiteness,
you will know it’s time.
Crouch and lift the grate aside,
you will see her,
light flash on blackened water —
cadaverous crone
in moonshrouded glory —
her pale crooked finger tracing a line
beckoning you
to descend the depths
and be
back into box and
descend faceless
among the crowds.
Her buttocks
squeak softly,
rhythmically
with the manual motion
of hand as she
masturbates to
pass time.