The Syntax of Rust

The iron gate remembers the warmth of hands, a brief friction before the closing click. Now it speaks in flakes of ochre, a slow vocabulary of decay.

Shadows lean against the limestone, measuring the afternoon by degrees. Dust motes drift in the quiet air, like syllables caught in the throat of the house.

We walk through the arches without reading the heavy text of settling foundations. Our footsteps are just punctuation, temporary commas on a long, unyielding page.