he scans the city

with lighthouse eyes.

his paint is the sweat

of blue-collar toil

his canvas a mosaic

of mundane lives — 

of grit and grime 

and scattered dreams

a throb of slums

and glut of high-rise.

a speedway sweeps through

the clutter of each day

its serpentine path

skims the city’s sighs.

the city’s pulse

beats in his blue veins,

his narratives are mirrors,

his brush never lies.

he scans the city

with lighthouse eyes.

there she is

framed by a window —

tidy hair and

uncombed mind.

tranquil eyes

and unquiet

thoughts

that run amok

beyond the

view of a life

stacked in neat

years of rituals —

daughter, spouse,

mother, grandmother,

robot, orphan of

circumstances.

the window

is her anchor.

she stands there

framed by a prayer

that will one day

set her free.

such was the lunar night that it mesmerized a city not ready to taste its shimmering skin half-witted
by the toll of pounding on its streets for bread and castles but O the moon-washed air held a strange
lustre that swept over a woman parched with grief and she drank deep the liquid light drank deep the
night.