sweet green of the Salzach seed rushes through canals in the Mönchsberg, past the restaurant linens and glass. combed and grated by a quarter-hour mechanism adorned in weeds and dove down.
two cooing lovers dust their wings, perched between near kissing apartments. the breast of the mountain encloses us here: moss, a few tendrillic limbs of ivy, the roaring lullaby of her streaming voice.
a trout wags its slow body against the ever flow. I sit and wait for the dinner guests to arrive, for the water to wear back its casing, for the gravity of leading things to undo and set us back like autumn watches.
press a little closer, one to the other and to her. the thunder is coming and soon the trout will tire. the iron gear turns again: whole diversion falling at the city’s feet, aglow with light sequestered.