Christo

      

First one must find a concept
large enough to contain the entire
city: Saffron, perhaps, or Gate.
The horse pulls its head into
its neck, making its body an
S below the gibbous moon.
Cover the river in grey silk. Let
the building reinvent itself
in soft satin curves. Owls
resent this impersonation
of their essence, feathers
cloaking coldness and no
blood. Let mice run beneath
the strutted floors, the gilded
ceilings arched like stars over
nothing. Nothing in this sky
is identified, so let it be
that.