Faces of this age, inbound,
transit under city towers.
Tip of paintbrush inside canvas rivers.
My eyes wander in a white sky,
drawn as human
to our magnetic stutter,
hands in pockets.
Distant jackhammers cube the air.
Trees wanting a wet gray shine,
the strokes of a sable brush
lay cart tracks down on
canvas gravel, through pools of water
reflecting November overcast
and the skies of a seagull's cry.
Let the vandals worship their statues.
At the bus-stop,
I stand back and watch
children make churches with their hands.