Submerged City

That city will be no more, no halos   

of spring mornings when green hills   

tremble in the midst and rise   

like barrage balloons—   

and May won’t cross its streets   

with shrieking birds and summer’s promises.   

No breathless spells,   

no chilly ecstasies of spring water.   

Church towers rest on the ocean’s floor,   

and flawless views of leafy avenues   

fix no one’s eyes.   

And still we live on calmly,   

humbly—from suitcases,   

in waiting rooms, on airplanes, trains,   

and still, stubbornly, blindly, we seek the image,   

the final form of things   

between inexplicable fits   

of mute despair—   

as if vaguely remembering   

something that cannot be recalled,   

as if that submerged city were traveling with us,   

always asking questions,   

and always unhappy with our answers—   

exacting, and perfect in its way.