The city itself is a desperado. I have ridden to its edge
into red maize. Time spins faster
in the fields. I brought an hourglass.
Sand flashed in the joining
tube with urgency of lust:
to eat the spans of women
and men. And the world
is a broad sphere, we surmise;
more than fables ramify
beyond the maize. Other Cities, stars
on maps that adorn the walls of libraries:
Genoa, Carthage, Goa, Tenochtitlan. . . .