There’s something faintly off about how the tram tracks stop
midsentence without leaving a trace.
Something about shadows unfurling
from seemingly nowhere and shifting a bit
and the cobblestone all glossy from an afternoon rain
and still the greyness persists and the trucks rumbling.
Everything else remains a bit queasy or almost unfinished,
including the stuffy drawing room study
with the cut flowers and blackouts,
with fingers leafing a book and the moonlight shrouded in darkness.