Late night breezes drift
over cooling sidewalks, circling
vendors with hands of profit
and eyes labored with sleep.
Paper lanterns, the skin of butterflies
twist lazily, casting light fragments
onto storefronts and strangers.
Voices, parts of sentences and half words
pass under weathered awnings;
the air is thick like legs running underwater.
Lime Street breathes night.
Hours capture quiet, holding the blanket near,
comforting the minutes before dawn.
Roger Singer 