A cadence unto something almost metrical interspersed with the sound of several
rivers and at least one bridge—matchstick pylons, multi-colored flags.
A gathering music in those tea-light windows, so many mouths, the prim-
rose platform edge. And collars upturning outside, as if history isn’t
a record over and over the same and also a prophecy like any other, foretelling
the obvious danger—these shoulders, the sweep of them,
tightening against the cold before the other night begins.