Two men, two ledges, two books—
one dawn, one dusk, one city breathing below.
First, the young one:
He perches like a thought half-formed,
knees drawn to chest, spine a question mark
against the sky’s slow bleed of gold.
The book is small in his hands—
a sparrow’s wing of pages—
yet it lifts him higher than the roof.
Sunlight pours over the open leaves,
turns ink to liquid fire,
and every word he reads
is a rung on a ladder descending
into the maze of streets and lives.
He does not look down;
the city is a rumor at his feet.
His beard is new, a soft rebellion,
his shirt the color of river stones.
He reads as if the page
were a map to a country
that has not yet decided
to exist.
Second, the older one:
He stands, not sits—
a pillar of salt and stubborn light.
The book is thick, leather-bound,
a continent of text
pressed between his palms.
The sun behind him is a coin
slipping from the day’s pocket;
it gilds the edges of his beard,
the tattoo on his forearm—
a compass rose, perhaps,
or a scar shaped like a promise.
He reads aloud, though no one hears;
the wind carries the syllables
over parapets and chimneys,
lets them fall like seed
into the city’s concrete furrows.
His eyes are closed half the time—
he knows the lines by heart—
yet the page still startles him,
as if each verse were a child
returning home older than before.
Between them, the same metropolis:
a hive of glass and rust,
arteries of light pulsing at twilight.
One man reads to become the world;
the other reads to remember he already is.
One sits on the brink of beginning;
one stands at the edge of ending.
Both hold the same ancient fire
in paper and glue—
a fragile ark
against the flood of noise below.
And the sun, impartial,
paints them both in molten bronze,
as if to say:
every reader is a silhouette
against the infinite,
every book a brief rebellion
against the dark.
one dawn, one dusk, one city breathing below.
First, the young one:
He perches like a thought half-formed,
knees drawn to chest, spine a question mark
against the sky’s slow bleed of gold.
The book is small in his hands—
a sparrow’s wing of pages—
yet it lifts him higher than the roof.
Sunlight pours over the open leaves,
turns ink to liquid fire,
and every word he reads
is a rung on a ladder descending
into the maze of streets and lives.
He does not look down;
the city is a rumor at his feet.
His beard is new, a soft rebellion,
his shirt the color of river stones.
He reads as if the page
were a map to a country
that has not yet decided
to exist.
Second, the older one:
He stands, not sits—
a pillar of salt and stubborn light.
The book is thick, leather-bound,
a continent of text
pressed between his palms.
The sun behind him is a coin
slipping from the day’s pocket;
it gilds the edges of his beard,
the tattoo on his forearm—
a compass rose, perhaps,
or a scar shaped like a promise.
He reads aloud, though no one hears;
the wind carries the syllables
over parapets and chimneys,
lets them fall like seed
into the city’s concrete furrows.
His eyes are closed half the time—
he knows the lines by heart—
yet the page still startles him,
as if each verse were a child
returning home older than before.
Between them, the same metropolis:
a hive of glass and rust,
arteries of light pulsing at twilight.
One man reads to become the world;
the other reads to remember he already is.
One sits on the brink of beginning;
one stands at the edge of ending.
Both hold the same ancient fire
in paper and glue—
a fragile ark
against the flood of noise below.
And the sun, impartial,
paints them both in molten bronze,
as if to say:
every reader is a silhouette
against the infinite,
every book a brief rebellion
against the dark.
The Sunday Circle