The air above the city is saturated
with prayers. Like the air in
industrial towns and dreams
it's hard to breathe.
Below, an aerial view of the apartment
where we used to make love.
Nightmare demolition site, cement rubble,
explosion of mortar and brick,
gargoyle beheaded.

In memory,
the unfastened blouse,
your hands stroking my hair.
The world seen through a child's snowglobe.
in yard we make snow angles
rising from where we've lain on our backs,
flying like children, leaving imprints of
wings and gowns.

There is a love which cannot be moved.
It must die in its place and in its time
destroyed together with the building
in which it stands.
It becomes like Cicero's memory palace,
assigned with beauty or ugliness,
dressed up with cloaks or crowns, disfigured
by stains of blood or mud or paint.
And in this way, we will remember.