There is a cloak that hangs over our city, pinned down at the seams on the corners where Interstate 43, Capitol, Humboldt, and Water Street meet.  It is speckled, like dirt, by scattered trash and the altering colors of cars zooming past, colored grey from exhausts and dark looming potholes we call streets.  The cloak is held up--identical to the coat that hangs on the bent spine of the homeless man on your block, by Holton Street--which also conceals.  What hides and divides is equally transparent.  And so, we are able to catch glimpses of what is unseen, in the way you might see a passing bicyclist through the spaces between cars.  The bicyclist, an African American, is so often out of view because her presence is denied by this revving majority culture.  Still, there is a belief in the evidence of “things not seen.”  When biking, her heart soars, and sings, and rests.  It, quite literally, takes her where she wishes to be.  The bicyclist relies on her perception of the city that she wants, but does not have.  This is an invisible city: it holds within its hidden state the power of dream and the potentiality of manifesting the dream.