Sunday, quiet

The city sleeps

Dulled expectations

as the feast awaits

A few day’s respite

from the grinding whine

High pitched beacon

Moths to the flame

The groaning anguish

across night skies

is not the hum of pavement

But the earth’s growing


Her lament for bygone

when her children padded

in soft feet on her skin

To nestle at her bosom

Now too clever

They ever mean

to reshape her