the old city

I am from the old city of boroughs,
a native of the convoluted streets,
of the solid plaster and crumbling bricks
& of the solitary, stalking stroll
that acquaints my demons
with my habits,
my occasional reality
& the timely weather in my veins.
Blood is for the cross-braced moon,
aspect & symptom of a wounded sky
imprisoned by high tensions
& the lines of communication.
I have counted and forgotten
the conflicts of the warring stars,
the shivering ghosts leaning on lost shadows
& I have drummed my soles
to their thin, stuttering declarations
becoming the glove and finger
beckoning to tired serpent eyes
to go home
beyond the slip and crack
of dead leaf reason.
I am freaked by clear accountancy
while the market sleeps in pleading truth
behind the opening veil
of cemetery gates.