Philadelphia.

• Author: Colasacco, John
• Position: Poem

My city was a restless musician in his sleep. My city was four red carcasses awake inside an envelope. My city kept telling me the same few stories and I accepted this out of regard for the city's dignity. I had unbelievable thirst at that time, in that city, the stores knew my name but never said it, one brother accused another of something terrible only as a joke. I left trash anywhere sometimes. My city gave money to trash, and an accusation, and I saw my own negative face anywhere flat and metal enough to be indifferent to it. There was much indifference then, eaten, put inside the body as a gas, put inside the blood of the body as a noise, because I felt you that way, so painfully and on purpose as the city gave its signal to a car somewhere, and I fought off my own...