The Yawn Between Hours
The plaza holds its breath.
A wind gathers,
but only enough to lift
the corners of yesterday’s paper.
I walk the edge —
stone to shadow,
shadow to stone —
smiling the smile
I made a couple of hours ago,
still warm in its pocket.
Visitors pose for a photograph
they will put off
for another hour,
or another day.
The fountain repeats itself,
water folding into water,
circles without departure.
Somewhere,
a sundial leans into the wrong hour,
its bronze hand
always too late.
The yawn arrives without warning,
a soft collapse of the face,
a brief surrender to the weight
of the afternoon.
And yet,
in the far corner,
a child’s shout
breaks the air —
a spark that rises,
then falls back
into the slow turning
of the plaza’s breath.
.