the scenes of the city are getting lost forever

faster than the eyes can shutter to think

a kaleidoscope of fragments, still

frames, of brick and of mortar

turn, one-by-one, out of place —

they are placed onto a concrete stretcher

and stripped away, but only in form:

their absence keeps a record,

an artefactual truth,

a repeating reel of no longer real estate

played back by an ensemble

of vestigial organs

an apparition,

an intangible,

an outer space --

an extremity.

a footnote in history.

a second-hand memory.

like the train station before the train,

before the rail,

before the engine,

before steam shot up in loco-motion

from the Steeples of Progress,

before the transmutation of

the Mass of Steel,

before the deluge

like the time when the rye and spear grass

alone kept watch

you can still see the invisible

in the brief moments you stop looking

but for now (and again)

the powers of tomorrow will conspire

the vacant lot will fill

with a baffling tower to appear:

more intricate,

more ornate,

more substantial

than all Creation.

the skyline will fill

but on each new day the horizon

will reveal the mourning:

there is something here

we are missing