It winds blindly, and unwinds.
Shuffles off itself, to return
with a couple of shucks built for technical purposes.
Or a lamp-post. Or a number
on a pole, white, smeared, empty…
The last street leaps and jumps into the open,
to dissolve in the fields,
like a river loses its contents to the sea.
It is now but a path.
Worn thin through the grass.
Calls back to mother street,
I will send you some flowers
from lovers who kiss and hug.
Will be right back, come night.
Dome-like structures of shining white
loom in the long distance. They spin
and they draw closer, slow, as if in a dream.
They are imagination robots.
Surveillance officers on the staff of the city.
And the last street is mapped out further on.
Arrows pointing to where it will die
the next time around.
2015.