No idiot gods or platonic blackbirds
just solid stone and old shoes—
another walk to work.

The sky is the gray
it’ll stay all January,
the cold, slow to arrive.

There are barges on the river
long arms, cranes
to lift stuff up.

Today I tried to count them,
the bridges repaired
the buildings born,

the union men
smoking in circles—
too many for the task.

It all seems so normal
till you look up
and the sun itself

is dwarfed by structure—
mundane creations,
magic works of man.