The font we reach
is grimed by the
road,
dark where waters
gather.
Wrappers and cans
choke the surface;
the black vault
drips.
“It’s too quiet,”
you say,
pitching a stone
through paper,
this day’s order.
We watch rubbish
ripple,
tap an acute edge.
“What’s wrong?” you
ask,
turning to go,
“It’s not the
original;
once it had another
name.”
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