That city will be no more, no halos
of spring mornings when green hills
tremble in the midst and rise
like barrage balloons —
and May won’ t cross its streets
with shrieking birds and summer’ s promises.
No breathless spells,
no chilly ecstasies of spring water.
Church towers rest on the ocean’ s floor,
and flawless views of leafy avenues
fix no one’ s eyes.
And still we live on calmly,
humbly — from suitcases,
in waiting rooms, on airplanes, trains,
and still, stubbornly, blindly, we seek the image,
the final form of things
between inexplicable fits
of mute despair —
as if vaguely remembering
something that cannot be recalled,
as if that submerged city were traveling with us,
always asking questions,
and always unhappy with our answers —
exacting, and perfect in its way.