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In the city where people take turns
to sleep in a bed,
a man watered his flowers at dusk
on a roof piled with garbage and clouds.
Down in the street,
the shark-fin vendors washed
the evening of its fishy slime
and crouched for a smoke.
In the night, an earthquake knocked
on the door of my sleep.
I looked up at the forest of blocks
leaning down the hill like the spikes
of a dragon moving its tail.
The misty mountain, like all
great local forces, was invisible.
And in the hour of trembling earth I saw:
I had come to the source of an old dream,
the nightmare of outsiders.
You stand at a window looking up
at some cityscape of alien lives,
tall darkness, and fire escapes,
all leaning down, but not offering a place for you,
or any hope that you can wake up
in a better world.