There are no footprints in the City— Dust wore away to bare rock concrete. The fine strung twine of feet pulls close At corners, weaves through traffic In the street. There are no tracks or trails, No paths to follow back. No paths to follow Just this maze, this crumpled map. These layers Of paper tole built up, set down, no footstep Leaves a mark on this compacted ground.   There is no hill top oversees it, and The buildings block the view. There are No journeys but a different way to move: By bus and sign and pushing through And chessboard steps to reach adjacent avenues Down one-way streets that snake Like ladders paved with passing feet But passing what? Just passing through The City like an unlived living room. Deep underground unseen life goes on, Outside it only goes about, between.   There's just no way of knowing where That walk has been, it brings no new dirt home And out there no new resonances sing. The tramp of feet goes on the same but Underneath it makes no sound, it's just An ever-moving sea swept in by wind, It sweeps away footsteps before they Even grip. It pours like silt through Every street—a heavy weight, a soulless thing.