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Jeanette Clough

I am surrounded by streets
half dark, half lit, by high rises
sheathed in metal and glass,
and marbled with neon-veined red. 

The city’s body is full of miracles
and sad majesty, drunk
from 24-hour light, so much,
cast onto familiar sidewalks 

where I, among the arcades,
the eloquent columns
grown from asphalt,
among the sirens, am lost.