The shell of the city

The shell of the city, seemingly more alive and farther away.
Hierarchy of ordered details, collages.
What life there’s left is in your luggage.

On the walls, the tangled shadows teach you to dance
and the memory of the night at the club floats yolkily.

It relaxes, yet not inside you. Something curled up
like a fist stays there.
You’ve mentally retreated from the roadside.

On wikipedia somebody puts it nicely:
In joy, the facial expression changes,
the eyes start to shine and the face becomes serene.

How?
Forget the questions, you’re with us now.

A much too contextually-preoccupied prediction,
tripping on patterns, reserved and dreamy ballerina,
somehow immaculate,
the fly struggles in the net with an electrical buzz.
Set it free so it can fall flat on the floor.

We listen to the same music at least for show.
Here’s the initiative for what’s broken,
may it work like a charm next time.