Eric Falci

Map. Fragment

A falcon straddles the air above the avenue.
Its flight now video, now night-cloud rising,
Gathering the grid's freight and strangeness.

The city as peregrine. As scored path.

There's news of a buried waterway below
Where now lightning corners every hour, on prowl,
On patrol. In the crowd—alone, surrounded—

You or I happen as city, as schedule,
Wandering under concrete seas, in islands.

The river is a phantom: tracked, adrift.

The bareness of smoke struggles between city
And city; unframed flashing/rinsed moon's cant/
Woven ruin in the early, mute hours.

The city as siren. As cracked glass.
A knot of freeze loosens on the window,
The grain unworks its facets, its frostmarks.

We could wager our way among others.

The city as trace as squander as copula.
A thing like a snowy video
On the low shelf. Wound, unreeled, raw.