-and now for something barely beginning-

an early morning fog has pressed

its palm of water

into the fabric of the city.

it seems to be heavy-handed

and the muscle of granite

powering the mill /church complex

is seen to struggle against it.

but the smokestacks and steeples lance the atmosphere

and the city, with its blue-collared tenacity rises

from the banks of the river arching its back like a cornered cat.

when the fog lifts from the backbone, the final preparations

of the interiors will begin.

the city's sleeves will roll above its blood-

colored elbows, and as in birth,

the outside will be populated from the inside.