The steam; the surface.
At least, it didn’t cover any words!
I perform great feats.
The rails run.
Less the windswept streetside ‘n its trials.
Is masked th’moon’s cratered plight beyond the wisp-white atmosphere.
Energetic wisps weave; wander!
Outside, upon the paved ‘n railing-ringed walk – sheltered – way, where Sunday patrons sit, the sun, through th’river’s auld reflection sings on th’wooden slats below the Cascade Steps.
House. Café. Poet.