The body waits for its head. The head, in copper so bright, will shame the body.
For a while yet even the dome sits below the apex of a tower crane taking everything down. Not far away, a fountain.
Further south, outside the Mackenzie, we can feel Fafard's calf.
I remembered those photos of Stalinist architecture and thought about Leboldus, though they're not the same.
This black and white manhole on page 86 of Hillsdale Book seems to be have been replaced.
Signs said go make the tahini paste.
Go stew the rhubarb.
I sped home
and put my feet up.