A face on a flag, the wind
gives it voice.
Steam from the day retires
nights grasp.
Horns and lights, the blood
of cities, pull at the weak.
People envy the closure of circles,
the place where end
is welcomed and faces are
familiar.
Lights breathe onto
crowded shorelines where
people are the high tide of waters,
pulling at the skin
of the city.
Roger Singer 