After another night of squalls, the city rinsed of smoke veers From a sail flecked bay.

Like a train accelerating in Its underground dark, the apostate Blood quickens its tread again.

This logic the lurching heart flails To grasp - of how and why it continues To beat out its vegetal rhythm even

As Adrienne recedes deeper into The oaken shadows of a new morning.

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn passed away last night. So I turned to one of most highlighted passages in my antique copy of "The Gulag Archipelago" to remember this fiercely beautiful writer by.

Rest in peace, sir.

A ferry tracks across the sunset bay, Its carmine a reflection of the flame That curls, hissing through the nerves to the blood in abandon. An angel of

Darkness spreads her cloak over Taut strings of bridges, and the glassy Shells of half-lit towers. Reflections of Gloaming in the rain puddled avenues Gleam like freshly hacked wounds.

Memory's hunger feeds on this landscape, in which Adrienne once moved, And through which the heart now, Stops and moves, and moves and stops, An ashen coal cradling fire in its arms.