Moonrise through thin cloud behind Coit Tower; a curtain is drawn. In the industrial gyre a telephone drops from the hand. One stood naked as the rain washed over his body. Quaver light. Luggage solitary on the platform. Nothing sleeps. There is foliage on this rock, a word to be spoken. Granted the tenderness of flint and steel, the nightsweats in the knell of stuffy rooms, rough sketch of the history of flight in a face in the tight circle of the bedside lamp. No, the flowers are slow to unfold.

James Brook | Mudlark No. 18
Tune of Wreckage | Crosswalk and Circulation