It is a dizzying sunspangled day in the city. A March-wind flirting sings in a standpipe in a lot I'm passing by where city-dwelling children used to play. Now there's a fence. And in my heart I yearn to cross that lot, and again on my return, but don’t, knowing in my heart its current kings are cold and stern. Oh, I could ask them why they've built in this, the last clear place. And they would answer Progress, such things as we learn when we are very young. And I - but I keep on my well-worn way. This wind, it flings wet trash across the lot, the city sways. And it seems if we just didn't believe these things were real before us, I could speak tongues, burn the city down, could step out and away from the ground, out into the mirror sky.