Cartography of the Quiet Flood

At dawn the river unbuttons its coat, threading through alleys where bicycles sleep. Manholes breathe; the cobblestones shine like scales and the pigeons rehearse a map of the air.

In the museum of a closed café, teaspoons hold their small moons, cooling in cups of dust. A radio murmurs a language of static, each syllable a tide nibbling the shore.

I walk with a pocketful of old receipts, the ink fading to a pale weather. Windows lift their blinds like eyelids and the street remembers my name in puddles.

By noon the water has folded its atlas, leaving the city to dry its sleeves. We are all coastlines after a storm, measuring ourselves by what recedes.