Observe the scattered common stones of these Twin Cities,
dusting sidewalks crumbled—ubiquitous,
taken in hand at foot, and thrown to,
from a bridge’s span above fast flowing currents of the Mississippi below.
Here flies to splash an artistry tangible,
before honest spoken words,
a sharp tone in tender ears,
which is contrast to what’s pictured:
Seen drawn lines,
Seen paintings bright,
Seen music made,
Seen night life.
Though observe them,
they are outside, heads aloft in thick-clouded dreams,
banded, mouths in perpetual motion,
hands seldom untied,
broken parts of stone—
proof over talking about the scene you’ve seen.
How those stones have accrued.
Some things get overlooked,
some things get stepped on;
other things get talked about profusely;
What of art does one hear?