History, yes,
But not here.
I secretly love
Every stacked story
On that 14-floored building.
The townies protest.
It blocks their particular light
(What light? I can’t see any light.)
With their seven boned necks
They can’t keep from looking up
The taphophobic nothing
Gravity defining
What’s so great about winter sky anyway?
And in the shadow
Or in the sun
Let him make no change
My fingers brush some palm
The crowd publicly excoriates
His skin like warm brick
I am in love
With the future
Sky scraped or otherwise
The concrete under his nails
In all the lung cracks
We don’t just go from here to the future
We build in between
I take the contractor home
His skin scuffs my skin
The city in light
We can see what the light falls upon but not the light
Then the city in shapes
It is not the future
It is knotted shoulder
In the pantry it is cans stacked and plastic bags of rice
And boxes of brittle spaghetti
It is bottles lying on the bottom level of the refrigerator
It is the ground-meat piled in the freezer chest
It is the sun and tan-line creases
He is difficult to kiss
And easy to cook for
He traces the furniture with blue chalk
He finishes and turns away
There is no silver future without shadow architecture
There is no such light to get in front of
He sees a grid
The bones in pits
Are not just his imagination
He is poorly lit
Which is greater
Which is greater
The building will be finished this October
I cannot imagine his body without him