to philadelphia

he thinks of horizons,

how there is only difference

in the outline of place,

whether mountains or

seas or endless flat

running desert, all over 'til

the earth finally ends-

all of history condenses

itself to a landscape promise

one that you don't ever expect

to come true.

and here, in this place, close

enough to home, the buildings

cut green-knife neon against the

night, filled with rain and waiting

spring, and where the bridges cleave

distance, he slows his car and watches-

the city stays open,

stays real.

nowhere else in the world is the same as this moment