Paper City

I was born under a bridge.
I was born a bridge, steel
girder, steel blue eyes, stolen
from the sea. My mother
was a lighthouse and my father,
sand. Or my mother was a beacon
and my father, an hourglass
pouring. I was born anywhere

but Pittsburgh; papyrus
and banana leaf. I can fold
in two. I can cut like
a scythe, pulp and grind.
I can develop ink on matte
finish, finishing line in sight.

I was born not out of dark.
I was born running out of time.