Report from the Provinces
       

I can say that those stationed here
conduct themselves well —

above all else,
we are citizens of the City.

We patrol the dunes,
then at night we tilt downward

to the flints in our Zippos,
to the grids of pixels

pouring the City through the light
of our quonsets. Citizens

remain citizens: we persist
in our petty obsessions,

our minute grievances. By the fire,
we voice ourselves

into the echoing dark
of each other's mouths. And when

the City descends to touch us,
the City hanging taut

from the silk jellyfish
of parachutes, we tear open

the boxes to immerse ourselves
in those spoils of our past

that collect us — our past sealed,
we swear, inside

the concrete slabs of the City. Soon,
it's dark again: the wind

drags sourcelessly over,
and we huddle closer to our fuel.

At dawn, as the manual demands,
we rise to sweep whatever

sand the night has blown in
back out through the open door.

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Copyright © 2012 Wayne Miller All rights reserved
from Boulevard
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission