Stony figures.

The fog can veil the morning, but the Statues still peer out.
Moisture gathers and rolls
drip dropping
off marble noses

elbows..

pooling below.

There is pigeon shit on Napolean’s waistcoat.
There is, there is.

And the Son of Man
His fingers crumble

Holy dust,
holy dust?

Entropy is the only judge.

And nothing that is stable
is worth writing about.