Was there a garden or was the garden a dream? – Jorge Luis Borges
it was you,
and the fractured walkways
where people desperately aspired
and played Bachata
and made the concrete home
where clothes hung
and the metro was booming
& where God rang His music
from the church on top the Hill.
where the weeds were in remorse
and paradise was a portrait
it was you
in the rubble of creation
on Ryer & and Washington Ave.
barely a hum in a fetching memory
scarcely a gaze of yellow glory
it was you gone.