The city contracts its muscle.
Now the yield per acre's higher,
leaner. Space, rare, becomes a canned
commodity. Bottle it. Elevation
is the only added preservative.
Spires thin to needlepoints.
The better to enter the gates of heaven
traced as far as their vanishing-points:
missed moments of ascension.
High-rise turns square-on:
wedges shoulders under the dead
weight of sky. Horizon sets out
in doing its daily round-up ends up
waylaid forever.