Here are basements, inbetween spaces
we don’t understand, don’t know how to explain.

A spade turns over crumbly cemetary dirt
riddled with endless sewers and catacombs.

Our mucky ditches, small protest
against the wayward canals.

Once one of our number dug too deep,
through the city to the sky free of shadow.

When dirt fell ‘way instead of resisting,
he climbed through taking his shovel with him.

The gates shuddered. Citizens clutched their palms.
One less citizen held, one less holding the city.

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from The Floating City