Impressions of the District

Yes those mornings where the starless skies
Peel back grimily like a mouth,
toothless, unhinged, gumming the horizon and its
modest giants, the obelisk in its dim glory. The monuments.
The people, under them, scuttling. How does the past
have time to catch up to itself
when there are a hundred thousand makers here,
always making? It’s like there’s a history, but only one,
the only history we’ve ever had. Raise the ivory columns around it
and no one can get close enough to tell
whether or not it’s true.