All-night cantinas are still.
Shabby film-noir
hotels
are steeped in shadow
deeper than their stains.
The vines are everywhere,
like scouts of an army
hard upon their heels,
like mad organic lace,
a grand ophidian opulence
leafing the listing
masts that dot the harbor,
caging the empty plazas
and abandoned streets
in tendrils that stray
along pastel walls,
across rust tile roofs,
twining through windows
with sinuous grace,
toppling lamps aside,
indifferent to remains,
mute green strength,
blind and vegetative,
about to pull the city
down into its waves.
Return Tomorrow to read
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