Unimagination

This city is unimagination,
The scattered stones are not
Tired polygons, cold stars,
The greased skies don't gather
Into debit-cards for cheap seas,
The highways don't drop
Clumsy stencils on city blocks,
And the market is not lit in
Menthol bonfires.

You are nowhere near;
A poet's eyes with his heart,
In some bag you carry
With forgotten practice.


Image Source: Gold of Nature by Leonid Afremov (with some discoloration)