Bells clamor somewhere within the city,
their deep tones bouncing off the painted stone walls
like
delirious beetles.
A tired art renovator holds the cigarette like a
paintbrush, the drooping ashes
reflected in his greying eyes.
He lets the smoke from his lungs trickle out to fill the
ambience of the
orange-painted restaurant
and sighs as his change jingles in the waiter’s wicker
basket.
He laments a hatred for coins and leaves
too large of a tip.
A yellow haze clings to the city,
sinking low like sweet
honey within the straight-walled streets and
dripping from the fizzing glow within twisted iron lamps
suspended above uneven cobblestones.
He ambles on through the slowly pooling golden cloud,
his shadow stretching and racing circles around his feet.
Why is it
these streets wind
like feathered serpents over the hills?
And the
squarish houses tumble over one another like
so many ill-placed tetris blocks?
These labyrinthine corridors can test a man’s endurance
in unraveling spools of string trailing the path behind
the path all the way to the beginning.
So often do they cross now and overlap…
I’m certain I have not the time to
unravel the entire knot and so…
He walks.
A poet prophesies in a foreign tongue at the rim of the
fountain
and laments a crude language.
Somewhere overhead a sliver of a sluggish moon receives a
prayer.
He runs a thinning hand through thinning hair and
throws open the windows.
I want to sleep to the
sound of the city
tonight.
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