Nothing is really beautiful from close up.
Except the shadows of his shoulder blades
in the six AM sun.

You think, “How ugly this city is,”
your nose pressed to its brick
the grit sticks to your lips, enters your mouth.

From farther up the street at the mountaintop,
you perceive the order
of a city breathlessly built.

Everything looks beautiful from above.
Except his shoulders slumped, and the broken nose;
clockwork eyes shut to the blossoming red.

You feel that the wall was unnecessary,
“A little thing like me,”
but justice (when it rears its glorious head)
is always zealous.

He tells them to let you go,
and they do,
and so does the crowd
(“What’d he do?” “N’importe quoi.”)

You take the high road,
climb the mountain so you can watch the lights.
But the stars are below, not above

and your fist is starting to ache.