A Thickness

At eight years, I'd sprawl across a solid bed.

Upon the monolith, my eyes soon dimmed.
But my fingers relaxed against a blank thickness--
a negative substance of my muscles' contraction.

Now, I romance the idea. I glorify it as a measure
of faces, of modern art, and of unfamiliar music.
Where my slackened mind finds substance,
there are bedsheets to lie within.

City,

City, I've read your gospel,
seen your banks erected
in plaster and brick.

City, your rooftops are familiar--
water towers and a highway.

And city, your avenues
will be mine again.