Flying in Concrete

A poem originally sold to Forgotten Ground Regained of Alliteration.net

Taken by me.

Imagine flying mid-concrete
C.D. Wright hath said, more or less. 
New Yorkers have known this daily.
We are a people whose peddles move
As Huorns root; as hard waters;
As tentacular tubes of motion
Upon the grey gravelstone walks
That have not the healing powers
Of Roman limestone — seawater lithe
Powder and lith that liquid sunshine 
Will heal whole. We have its cracks
As places to posture our promised dream.
We squirm along, squeal alone,
Squiggle in the sea of iron stones
For a splash of watercolor. For the rose spray 
On the capstone where the stark color
Of a carved maw — simulacrum —
Suggests something unthought:
Gargoyles are still good
When tamed and turned into a talisman.
You are now free to frolic in puddles
And gargle the rain; grey runners.