At Banbury Place, the palace of brokenness, I see questions written in the language of squares. There are green squares, brick squares, and boarded up squares of Building G. It is my frayed quilt of building, no longer giving warmth.

What is it made of? Where has it been? Where is it going?

I turn to the swan, to the river, to the buildings of the palace that aren’t empty, and I am answered. 

“Find the thread – I used braided fishing line and wings,” the creator says. 

          The buildings – broken pieces, all made of old tires and new tenants,
          The river – a moving sapphire, no less a treasure than the quilt or this: 
          The swan – made of trash, a harsh eye over a beak made of a caution sign.

          Once, men made rubber, made a living in the center of the palace.     
          Once, women made ammunition for the war.
          And for a time, the wind from empty spaces made dust on floors come to life.
          Now, inside, the reverend gives a small message to a smaller crowd,
          And an emaciated woman lifts weights.
          They, too, start with small spools of fragile thread and come prepared.
          I search the halls for the alchemist who poisons the air, yet gives the factory walls
          A small flask of mystery.
          Gold from salt. Gold from bricks. What can be made from this?
          Some come with flashlights to find the ghost electrician, the ghosts of the shoemakers,
          The ghosts of the homeless in the underground tunnels,
          But they are in the in-between, the purgatory, while
          I have to seek the foundation, flesh, and future of this once and always palace.

The river says she can’t remember where she’s from. She tells me she supposes the sky, but can’t be sure. I ask her to tell me a fact, because abstractions are becoming exhausting. She says, “Did you know snowflakes are formed with a grain of dust at the core? Did you know I am made of dead snowflakes?” I frown and she continues, “I can’t tell you my core, if you have no desire for the intangible.” She says she’s named the Eau Claire River because she is truly clear water.

On bridges, I follow her to find where she is going today, starting from Banbury Place. The river heads past the library and sweeps by the old 2 South Barstow where a masterpiece is now painted in each window. Square, square, then Paul Bunyan, square, square, then the silhouette of a man with a martini. The river gives a small curtsy, dipping south slightly, gracefully. At the corner where Phoenix Park holds still flower bulbs in his breast, she meets the grand Chippewa River. They dance a minuet in fast currents. She sighs and joins him, winking at me through the solemnity of winter light. Tomorrow she’ll race to Altoona where she’ll fall for the lake, who is perpetually pregnant. This is not a love story, though I do know whatever tale I’m telling may love these paths and cycles of water like a snowflakes loves its grain of dust.  

The king of this palace is a swan made of trash who is starting to tilt. He is leaning away from where the building ends, closer to where new life is stirring. He knows his creator. He knows how and when and from what he was made. But where is he going?

I climb rusting pipes to crouch on the concrete platform near his body. I stroke the wings. Hard, cold, and curvy are the things we throw away. Everything’s white. I ask him if he’s made this way, and he says he was painted over and over to be bright. The snowflakes are melting around our throne. The sun hurts. It shows grace in light that reflects off the river we both watch from our aerie. I think not of strength, but of might – the kind that makes some see this bird, ask what it means and what they can do to fight to preserve this building, this river, this city.

What does it take to save not just the day – everyone can save the day – but to save the night?

The building is cold and smells raw. In my mind, I paint short strokes of maroon or brown with a thick brush, four lines make a box. I kiss brick squares with their rough grooves of mustache and close my eyes in deep blessing. I understand rough, broken shells with possibility. But what makes this palace come and go and be is more than I can find staring at a wall. I stop asking the creator and glance at the squares I hold.

“Look,” I say to the hollow building, “my hands are empty, too.”