The winter they tore down the city
by Laura Stott
January. I gathered daisies
left on the snow until I had a whole bouquet
of bright orange and that song started
playing and you took my hand.
We disappeared with the city,
whole blocks at a time vanishing in mist.
Me, holding a pile of sunset.
And when we came back,
everything was white,
even my hair.
We were on the hill, and all we could see
were the strange arms of construction
cranes rising above the clouds,
like the backs and arms
of Goliath men, frozen in time,
the rubble of concrete
at their feet.