Isaac Leib

Your city ends, means beyond new
cities, ignorant of peaceable ways.

New city, an easy stepping traverse
of identities, transmission:

permeable as laid fish

into concrete, speckle of blood, trickle
of electric web, first meditations,

fatiguing, sleep resurfacing.

The entangling village; evident, unstoried,
open legged as the upcoming stride.

What of the old town? What of the order
unbending, the anarchic forecasts

flailing for participatory cogency? And
what of the nightbirds’ soliloquies,

tonight, at Peretz Square?