With Hands Wide Open

City of statues in cages,

I've never belonged to you,

but I can walk your pavements

garmented in ice,

look up at your tall buildings

which reach the invaluable moon.

I can speak your language,

though, perhaps, not fluently like you.

As time goes on I've grown bored.

I no longer watch for your signs,

both visible and audible.

In the past few years

I have learned little new.

You, holding a moth in your hand,

long ago I learned

how fortunate you are.

But, should you hold a moth in each hand,

you would not be so lucky.

Best, if that were true,

to hide one hand behind your back.

Thus you might fool us.

As for me, my hands are wide open,

there is nothing in them; not even Nothing.