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The city is at war. I can see the ripples from these offices. I stand, a silhouette against the checkerboard of windows, squares of pavement slabs to cast my shadow onto. Out, below, the bombs go off; the crowds of people beat their heads against a black and blue and day-glo wall. Before, the discontented smoked and dreamt and sucked each others’ air. Above, I bend my back, become a bridge from one frontier, across a river wide as no-man’s-land, as cold as barricades and riot shields. The crowds climb onto roofs, and shout, and surge to try to swallow enemies. I hide, the central panel of a triptych, at the middle window, still, observing like a journalist. There are two cities here, like feuding lovers trapped in the same room. Perhaps the liars’ tongues will fatten now that unkept promises glow luminous. The citizens, the streets, torn up like seams. The city is at war with itself. |
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CONVERSATION
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