That city will be no more, no halos of spring mornings when green hills tremble in the midst and rise like barrage balloons— and May won't cross its streets with shrieking birds and summer's promises. No breathless spells, no chilly ecstasies of spring water. Church towers rest on the ocean's floor, and flawless views of leafy avenues fix no one's eyes. And still we live on calmly, humbly—from suitcases, in waiting rooms, on airplanes, trains, and still, stubbornly, blindly, we seek the image, the final form of things between inexplicable fits of mute despair— as if vaguely remembering something that cannot be recalled, as if that submerged city were traveling with us, always asking questions, and always unhappy with our answers— exacting, and perfect in its way.