I’ve been rummaging my fingers through your lamellae, like a paper crane old and in need of unfolding. You have a reputation to uphold; it is slick and blue and serene on the hill. Below it a dark underbite, like the first time I met you; your shape all lower jaw and bad altitude. Each time I picture your face it is circled in aluminum sheen, your river wounding into a polar star, the sun white no matter who is in office. There: your body in fetal position, blonde and bulb-cut. There: at the bottom of the hill the body of a homeless woman, her head in a bag. Your fingers are so close to your fingers it’s as if you are hiding something. I have not been to all your stations, though I write down each road I have not taken. Your centre-light, your better neighbourhoods: violet sopor, like a good daytrip. Like any good citizen, I check my mail and keep the door open. I drum my hands over every barnacle of fence-rot. I am not a citizen. I have not received any letters from overseas. Dear city, we commit to you although my family has prior engagements. We never did fly to any of their funerals, even as each relative began to die one by one.