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.
Roger Singer 