Cartography of Rainlight

At dawn the tram wires hum like wet strings, and the street exhales yesterday's heat through grates where fern-light trembles, green as a promise nobody signed.

Pigeons lift in a single gray thought, turning the sky with their soft machinery. In a bakery window, loaves glow amber, small planets cooling on iron racks.

I walk beneath scaffolds beaded with rain, each drop holding a bent cathedral. My name blurs on a fogged shop door, then gathers itself and goes on.

By noon the river wears a sheet of tin, hammered bright by a wind from the hills. All day the city keeps rewriting water, and evening reads it aloud in light.