Rittenhouse Square, Philadelphia
The faces of the suffering
more universal in this stick.
One line becomes many.
Hydra, hydrate, evolution of tolerance.
I feel many places at once.
Or I am many at once.
Bianca on her personalities:
“We manage each other well.”
From photography to a littered current,
the voices that speak to themselves
through the haze of the pause . . .
It sits ritualistic in carbon, granite,
brick exponentially attuned.
The universal suffering isn’t universal.
Turn the colonizer’s neutrality off.
Bearing down through smoky essence of tourist
the church bells ring, sticky with rotten egg smell.
I never wanted to believe in a history,
which is why I fled to the ahistoric frontier
where only mountains and their dying glaciers
can speak and know the true stories.