It was a day dedicated to high relief,

with many paths, chosen and forced;

like spiders fleeing heavy noises.


Statues watched with granite eyes the song of

traffic and voice passing beneath stone arms

lined with pigeons, as the faces merge like

many streams into one great river.


Eyelashes wink at an edging sunlight

running the angle of buildings, cutting shadows

onto sidewalks, stretching them and then reducing

images to charcoal gray, blurred with motion.


A tangle of morning steam circles like

seaweed, rolling over, baptizing the less than

angels, the owners of lost, the benefactors

granted another day.







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