Swirling steel spires

and unraveling glass gravitate

to the raven midnight atmosphere.

 

Neon streaks flow, boundless

across the unending canvas.

Watercolors bloom;

lights of plastic-pink and

synthetic indigo bleed

into the damp ceiling

of the marred white clouds.

 

The harbor, the pier

the noise of mooring horns

blaring through the stark night

among the whistles of wind

in our whisper.

 

Wind catching on faces,

borne with it the slightest

scent of charring smoke.

 

What lies beneath the broken surface

before me, the water

moved by the moon in the sky?