Jack Li

A tall staircase led up a wall 

south of the city’s port

and reached around a corner 

at the marketplace.

One day a merchant came in,

weary from a day at sea

with no biscuit or ale, 

and he saw fit to climb it.

This is not our way, said

the fishermen from the plane.

Up he ascended and, amazed

at the height, he stopped halfway

to taste the salted air, listen

to the sea. Up he continued

and, on the fifth or so to last

stair, the whole structure disintegrated

and down he went and was

never again. 

         Once there was a city

like an elegant scarf knotted 

over and over again: it twisted around

and back in on itself. Lining its

southern port was a stone wall,

and up it led a staircase. One afternoon

a limer from two cities over on the east

came in and he wished to take the climb.

It is not our way, said the dockers.

The steps were damp, like the walls of a

wine cellar and, like a poorly ventilated

cellar, smelled of must. Nearing

the top, he dropped and went out into

the nothing.

        There was once a city

just north of a trafficked sea, 

whose streets read like the personal 

notes of an enumerator.

It suggested that somewhere,

there was a more orderly

counterpart in the same handwriting,

names and households tucked 

neatly into rows, but that this

was far from that place. It

had a staircase, shielded 

from the bustle of a small but

highly valued warm water8 port,

and this staircase never 

seemed to be in use.

One Saturday a caseman

from an unfamiliar town came in.

He saw that the stairs were well trodden

and took to follow. It is not our way

to take these stairs, said the floatmen,

but yes, it is the only way to the city.

And yes, he ascended and oh, at

the top he plunged and the fog

smelled of salt, and the ploffs of men

emerging from skiffs sounded above

the hum of merchant cries.