Once I moved Away

The city does
not wait for me
but goes on with vein
& patient lines of colour

through months of
unfurling soft,
pretty green &
seablue sleeping bags.

When I do not look at her
nor walk avenues,
still she grows,
throbs alone, or under the heels
of another—after a time

I return,
fleeting or in dream

& see she springs with season,
mists that float over
her morning water,
white streets
exposed to august
then wilt to autumn’s palm.

Once I moved away,
so she