A hill under rain. Today
no seagulls wheel and whistle

like scratched glass above
a half-filled lot. Which isn’t

to say silence, no,
this city expands

like vapor to fill
a space, yellow cranes

like stork legs, that idea
of nascence–

which doesn’t actually
countermand death– a square of sky

where a building once stood,
rubble-dust dampened by another

sudden shower. A hill
from trees, and land

from sea, just
like the weather, living

here, we run such
a very fine margin–