Ten days beyond a city sunrise.
A water flower.
The footfall flux meanders.
The Trow’s resuscitated – see the blackwhite gable draped along in hanging baskets.
Lapped at by the coursing mirrored-sky.
Their lines stretch finite.
The rails run.
Whate’er shall I write next?
Less the windswept streetside ‘n its trials.
Your essence, earnestly put forth unto impermanence to weather storms of whetherwhims.
No rhymes for reading; hearing!
Reincarnate, they live as long as us.