The brilliant pinpricks of light
I see when I shut my eyes
are glimpses of neon glamor
in a city I wish I could visit.
It’s a mass of granite and steel,
bronze and glass architecture
festooned with laughter and screams
more rowdy than even Times Square.
You don’t believe this city exists.
You think it’s hopeful thinking
applied to prismatic effects
shattered by my fragile eyesight.
Often I dream of long avenues
undulating over rolling ground,
framed by marmoreal buildings
displaying taverns and pawnshops.
These are the outskirts. The city
itself lingers out of my reach.
I can’t walk through miles of crime
to reach the horizon spiked
with flamboyant geometries
architects and engineers admire
for their leverage against the sky.
You claim this city’s an amalgam
of Shanghai, Manhattan, Dubai.
You challenge me to anchor it
to a page in the Times atlas
or find online photos of streets
that web the city I imagine.
The pinpricks of light are rich
enough to prove this city exists.
Its secrets blaze red, blue, green
in a dimension I can’t share with you
because you’d only deflate it
with a gesture brisk as a scythe’s.
William Doreski has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Venus, Jupiter (2023). His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals. He is a regular poetry reviewer for The Harvard Review.
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THE CITY KEY 