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bastion of medieval mediocrity
emboldens
poets longing for unmerited
longevity.
Words are painted on the stones
by the trebuchet—
an installation.
I am tempted there
to leave behind these words
that fall like stones
though from no great height.
across cobblestones
tin percussion
on the hoods and roofs of cars
water streaming from awnings
pooling
water dropping from eaves
tires sibilant over the street
laughter of girls racing home wet
silence
hammer on stone
birdsong, church bells
thunder announcing the next movement.