"Then comes a poet, enemy of convention,
  and makes a slit in the umbrella: and lo!
         the glimpse of chaos is a vision."

In a city where green moss coats the trunks of trees and the sun floats in a leaden sky,
a bevy of bridges lift over the river I once sailed on, thin and filled with new visions.

Watersoaked stones sink into a risen river's
chaotic voices mumbling a Sphinxian riddle.

A few days after returning home, while considering the various paths over the mountain,
I stopped by an aqueduct open like a thirsty throat. A woman with two dogs approached.
One licked my offered hand; the other, mouth foaming, she held back by his collar.