The Architect

Today I strolled along with an entire city gently suspended below my feet.

The New York Public Library hanging upside down to my right.

I once heard there was a library designed for one university or another,

Where the architects had forgotten to take into consideration,

The weight of the books.

When the grand building was opened and all the shelves piled high,

The whole thing sank into the earth.

Now here's one of the largest collections of books in the world,

Eighty eight miles of shelves,

Dangling gracefully upside down, above an overcast sky.

The two stone lions are so regal there's not even a hair out of place,

On their overturned heads.

What do the builders of this city know that the other architects don't?

Was there a lecture on zoning laws that they ignored?

Or was it something more subtle and profound?

And what about me?

Walking above the clouds, way down there.

I too would fall for miles into this sky,

If it weren't for another man about my height and build,

Walking with me step for step.

Matching my every stride on the souls of our shoes.

Our feet touch on opposite sides of a thin membrane,

That separates us.

His umbrella keeps his face in shadow.

Over by the curb on 5th Ave, the roots of the trees are inverted trees themselves.

I think about all those poor people working away in their high rises,

The skyscrapers that stretch below me into infinity.

Their entire offices turned upside down.

How difficult it must be just to pour yourself a cup of coffee.



Alex Hill

January 2002


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