The thinking game plays on. Halogen skies
and digital billboards snooze their big city dreams,
punctuated by the occasional minaret.
A sidewalk shudders unguents through
earthquake cracks, all rhyme and violence. I skim
the city’s black tar glyphs. I’m now well-read.
Each morning an absolution for the brain,
my slow sycophantic goading of it
into sticky fissures and origami folds.
It’s a form of happiness, surely, too erudite
to be understood.
Siel Ju’s “Miracle Mile” is our poem of the week