The Old Walls Poem by Zoë Skoulding

The wall is who we are and they are not and
farther in the boundaries collapse in a rush of
security as cells multiply and break through stone
translucent grit cracks the skin open to the elements
we go down through layers and this is history
a low door at the foot of the walls opens into starry
arches articulate as loin bones the slender joints
lithe as a voice disappearing from behind the
words behind the walls where water moves
against deep tones of trees that cloud the air
behind the smell of wet earth the voice leaves
the shape of itself and the footprints of walkers
trace the shell of the city its dead words
we crawled out of our words tender like snails
and the new city grows from the loins of the old
as lichen spreads in acid maps invading and
retreating the city runs along fingers runs along
roads and wires and into fields and the sightlines
run back to the city in wires and the walls
keep nothing out and the nothing beyond as a cloud
of eyes moves through the streets and falls like rain