old, very old (early 1980s to 90s?)

When you see cities in ponds, say Portland in the Oaks,
all the buildings are unusually smooth at first, apartments
on Park Avenue. one brick band: a stroller swings in sky,
antennas are dishes whose pistils are trained on murmurs
but someone spoils this by tossing fragments of lunch to ducks
who have waited for them all along. An apparition of city
you thought you saw are broken, involved by wavelets radiating
from food-bits, Cheesits, waffled cones and hot dog rolls
ducks tumble and swim for, flashing the orange of their duck feet,
the city shattered into arcs, blue or calico, water licking walls.
I tried to read the Crito by the pond once when this happened
and was stuck on the page that whispered (Socrates to Crito)
of the city-state: how can you shake its burden off your back?
Especially as she raised you? How can you look yourself
in the mirror after you've refused to serve her, so generous?
roomy units nestled in austere trees there, and shattered

as the birds dropped on government buildings in the pond.
I was curious about the liver-spotted minnows at the bottom,
schooling through decomposed oak leaves, glittering pyrite arrow-shafts.