This city is a disease which tunnels thin passages into one’s head.
Empty angels live in ghost hotels,
the wallpaper pattern is little houses on the prairie.
The women know who they are, they dance with the mirror.
Their eyes move sideways.
I look because they don’t.
The bottles are full and the tubes hang
from point A to point X
I arrive in this city to be remote.
The roads are icy,
good for going and coming.
Must I know whom to bow to,
must I be located,