The Writer on Image Street

In the city where I live I live in a clock museum where towered glass and hammered steel rise like the second coming. There are magic things, rainbow believers that consume the wind of my tongue my mind a well of musical gifts my blood dried on ancient parchments. Someplace where it's quiet listening to the Atwater-Kent the smooth voice of Barbra Streisand the writer at his formulation desk.

Dinosaurs on the windowledge balance like a heritage of hungry angels there is a reason for this grace.