Through the wide, thick glass windows
of Cafés Verlet, in-between page numbers
ninety nine and hundred of Sigmund
Freud's "The Interpretation of Dreams"
there seemed to me there was nothing
which was real; except revisions of rain.
The recoiled traffic jams below a bridge
of artificial streetlamps hummed and
The fingers of rainfall sharpened, thinned and
slanted northwesterly. Road divisions of
cobblestone paths adorned with pink flower
petals that layer as randomness created
roadside art. It seemed these growing distances
between footpaths were widening. Water passed
streets have intoxicant variants: the hearth of a
furnace where bread bakes and the increasing
fever in my body; measured in their temperatures.