when the late evening me returned
piercing the misty pattern
of urban decline...a slope
two or three figures like climbing ghosts
stalked me straight from tombs
as if to remind thrills of nights
listening wide eyed stories of fright
from granny in her gray shawl wrapped
me resting my tiny tired head on her lap...
urban misty form has such a thing
known roads turn never seen...
buildings frequented to look so unknown
a small patch of green turn a smoggy ocean...
park looks as wild as a bog
It is such a delight to move through urban fog...
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