Left there yet in the corner where cobwebs clung,

to the stained glass lamp you bought for a fifty,

from that crowded shop that sells useless trinkets,

dusty paintings of rounded trees and emerald green,

to teach the visiting rats in the city’s daily race,

what a herd of horses looks like

on a deserted distant plain.

But after that first short visit she’s moving out there,

because the sunlight on the mountains blinked yellow,

because the morning mist came in like waves of air,

and even the barest of the trees remained intent,

on reaching farther out for the earth’s own betterment.

Moved out, yes,

out past where the flash of neon ends,

over and through the tunnels and pillars of steel,

past the immovable place inside you where the spider spins,

a clinging web in all the corners of a city dweller’s soul.