The roof tops are terra cotta, more torn than terra, as they flake off the slanted boxes of white wash and metal bars over glass.
Few towers stand above the rest like a family seperated, not together, distant enough not to be close.
The road that twists between and connects, visible, in intersection but hidden under the canvas of trees planted with the purpose of shade, but much less planned where they are, with broken side walks, exposed roots, and lifted cracked tar and cement.
The new old, what we once were is now, for all walk around changed without knowing the past is happening.
Open are the eyes, mouths, lips of lips, as sensuality embraces the future, for we do not know now, only later. Embracing the future of possibilities in the bosom and flesh of the streets, boxes, buildings, and shade.
Comforted by the past plans that serve the purpose without perfection, but by being and being, where building is for tomorrow.
Posted in Uncategorized
