Cartography of Rainlight

At dawn the tram wires hum like wet violin strings, and the street unfurls a silver atlas underfoot; pigeons lift, small ash-gray pages, while gutters carry yesterday in thin bright rivers.

A baker opens the dark with a blade of light, steam braids itself around his wrists; each loaf is a warm planet turning, its crust crackling with the language of fire.

On the bridge, umbrellas bloom and close, brief black flowers in the weather’s hand; beneath them, faces flicker in shopglass, constellations passing through their own reflections.

By night, rain writes over every hard surface, and neon drifts across the puddles like spilled ink; I walk home through that patient shining, learning again how a city remembers us.