The city was burning—or it wasn’t.
I don’t know how to woo you. Lightning
struck the city blind and I was its prophet seer.
I lost you then. And no river took us home.
And no roads lead home. And no market
to market, to buy a fat hog, and no home
again, home again, no jiggity jog. I’ve known
a heaven, like a gate. And you were not its keeper.
I crept, stealthy in my stolen black, a porter
of only your unknown hours. Who you? Who,
seriously, were you? A fawn. A cobalt. A convalescent
in a courtyard in a time before mine.
Whole milk scared you. You cardiologist, you.
What nothing. What nothing undid you in moments. 
The city was burning—or it wasn’t.
I am the city and you are my work of great mischief.
What They Tell You
The world is my