Friday, May 20, 2011

The Pity

The iron box begins outside the city, but looks like a lead prism. It runs first, from field to field, until it joins in beside its first road and continues toward the outskirts like a thick dull wall angling away from the tarmac and macadam. A large project, it blocks off cross-streets and cuts through houses, some little bridges have been assembled to hop over in places. "What goes inside?" It crosses the entire city rendering the place enlightened,
and at the end the iron box becomes a stylized cape, and its fine front edge touches across the shoulders
of a large Edgar Allen Poe, also iron, but white, upon whose forehead sings the phrase: