Prince of Georgia

The cafe clerk is baking bread. A bird sings its independence.

The busker knows a single song, maintaining proper distance.

Boundaries are drawn, inctus, between the dusk and sunset.

The brutalist, formalist, international palimpsest.

The sun is turning buildings gold, which once were steel and stone.

The traffic thins, the crowds disperse, the frenzy come and gone.

The clouds computing and disputing where the shadows lap,

As matrices and interlocking puzzle pieces snap.

The Prince of Georgia marches through the rusted gated gap.