Rectangles with souls.
Windows lined like soldiers.
Sounds in the head. Fog rises
but never into a storm. Dogs
walking as if they know where they’re going.
Fast steps lead to a corner bar where
No one’s ship comes in; liquid languages
spoken here.
Everything appears in slow motion.
It’s easier to remember when dreaming
in black and white.
Each town is a jungle. Roars and rabble
run from the alleys.
Back to the wind. Fair weather somewhere
up ahead.
Roger Singer 