Coaxing this thing into its active voice,
filling the void in its purple dusk,
requires will power –
a kind of civic pride in the sharp-edged curb.
It wants to speak, or be heard singing
its name. It wants to climb, or be the
summit. It creates a self-portrait,
it becomes the caricature. Though
it wants power it breeds the powerless.
And we who bear witness babble endlessly,
like poets, like crooners, like psychiatrists,
lost in a glass-walled forest.