Cartography of Rainlight

At the tram stop, dusk unbuttons its coat, and rain writes bright Morse on the shelter roof. Puddles hold the city upside down, a second Prague trembling under my shoes.

Neon drifts across the cobblestones like spilled fruit, red, then amber, then the thin blue of an ambulance. A violin leaks from an open window, its notes turning to steam above the river.

I follow the smell of bread and wet iron, past statues wearing beads of water for crowns. Each doorway exhales old conversations, each bell tower counts what the storm forgets.

By midnight the clouds fold into quiet maps. Streetlights pin small suns to the dark. I walk home carrying rain in my sleeves, as if weather were another name for memory.