The night swallows the day in tragedy and peaceful stars.
The river bobs quietly
As words become empty vessels
To transport the night from one to another.
There is no use in anything more,
Building is done
And lush growth is hidden by bulging stars.
St. Paul’s rises
Plastic and far off
Thudding along the skyline,
Marking where and what we are.
Softness erupts at the foot of plasticity.
It all happens with languid motions.
The not and the is mingle
No name for it crosses our lips.