Maya Cohen

Each building is a poem, you tell me,
as the bright lines of square light write signs on
our faces, music in our places of stone.
I think of your lonely street lingering
under the closed stanzas of skyscrapers
and find no words to say. Instead, I hold
my hot breath- and become crystallized in
you. I shine brilliantly for you.
Together we close our eyes and turn the
city into rubble, the stones of its
unfurled walls scattered like fragmented bone.
Where will we live? I ask. Will you rebuild
these fallen towers of song? Where is home?
you reply, and nest amongst the rubble.