Instinct and Location
The architect hears
herself snore, but sleeps on, curled in a tent
in a dale…
The creepiest things, she knows, don’t necessarily
creep. Stand still, she says anyway, dream-wandering through some city
on a lake—you must stand still.
She likes to emphasize the place of line
in lineage—that connection to fixed points in the past, so as
to thwart wobblings.
She thinks hydraulic barricades, Swiss
boat rides, but the stoplights are discombobulated, the islands
all spilling over. The architect is young but has spent some time
and has spent some time…
Fat sidewalks, long walls. A grill
with a salmon on it. The architect trembles, half-woozy, she carries
her worries, she drops them and yanks them.
The city announces itself.
Its street names, its river. The architect is handed an envelope, feels
graced—she wavers, cuts through Daley Plaza.
At five she fasts. At six
The meetings are cancelled: the hail. The trolleys
The meetings concerned the trolleys. The architect
is concerned, she blushes, gets flagged down by foreigners…
On the 95th floor of the Hancock building, the architect and some long-lost
friends from Lausanne are sharing grilled salmon.
The architect is wondering
why she hears a goldfinch—