The voice in the sky.
A detonating effect.
The embassy green and marbleish.
The water below and the bells.
The bells and their salty confidence.
The ruddy lights and we are frozen.
The French had concerns over architecture but others believed more in signage.
The Ways.
The ways of banners and this flag sewn quietly in that material is a brooding reminder of borders.
Bilingual schools and plaid skirts four finger-widths above the knee.
The night. The next city. Stop.
The ground is moving or is it the trees.
Choosing the yellow hairpin is only the beginning of Wednesday.
The bells, the bells, their clippage.
I have a fiery interior and the damp wind is regretful in that way.
Let's get out of the wind.
For example, let's run for that train about to leave the station.
Something will remain.
That flower, for instance, can have my chair.
Bring your vowels, so adorable in their longness.
How do you hold them like that, just a little bit out from your mouth.
I want to sit inside them.
Talk to me like that.
Reminisce or take the city like that driver took the road.
The train is waiting. The whistle. Bells & bells.
Somewhere in Canada sits a small and blonde historian.
Take her on the road and don't let her go.
Behind us will be any number of possible combinations of the following: percentages, recessions, lack of jobs, brief leases, and vacancy rates.
Their transience is what we love about them.
Touch lightly and go on. Touch it and leave.
The next. The next. Stop.
The voice in the sky, bilingual, says take it and go.
Remember what you forgot.
Keep going.
That voice has a duty but you don't need to know about it.
It's not a secret, right.
The night, the ways & the greenish structure.
The bells & the bells.
That signage.
Reminders of boundaries.
The train. Stop.