Citizens falter in the purposeful street.
Above the fumes of money, confusion,
from the leaden gaps of sky comes a murmuring,
a sigh like breathing, pulsing of blood.
Swans are flying on unhurried wing beats,
necks as prows towards horizons. Glinting
like new coins, pedestrians’ faces
turn skyward… The city smells of warm stone.
Sun illuminates the prison’s granite.
Thrust through the bars of a cell window
are a pair of hands, palms upward. Whatever
they have done, those fingers, spread like wings, chill
the indifferent light…
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By David Selzer