"Then comes a poet, enemy of convention,
and makes a slit in the umbrella: and lo!
the glimpse of chaos is a vision."

In a city where green moss coats the trunks of trees, and the sun floats in a leaden sky,
a bevy of bridges lift over the river I once sailed upon.

Watersoaked stones sink into a risen river's
chaotic voices mumbling a Sphinxian riddle.

A few days after returning home, while considering the various paths over the mountain,
I stopped by an aqueduct open like a thirsty throat. A woman with two dogs approached.
One ran to me, licking my offered hand; the other she held back by its collar.