I would love to know what made

each city burn so bright

and every town, village and enclave

burst with energy, the pulse,

is it manufactured, brought into existence

by the heartbeat of those

whose muscle desires it most;

desire in ache, desire in conquest,

the craving to be free

but pulled in one direction

to be a fragment of the whole…


I see the whole and kiss its pulse,

I hear the trumpet blown and the

car horn bluster with discontent,

the ravage of the road

and propelling of traffic

on slick rubber tread

with gust and wind,

the bash of the voice

shouting in the darkness

and drive of a heartbeat…


all around.


Ian D. Hall 2016