Six small rooms of language. Choose a card, or let chance choose for you.
A quiet page, a waiting line,
the cursor blinks, then words align.
The harbor keeps a single lamp
against the weather of the night.
The street still shines as if it learned
a second, quieter kind of day.
The apples hold the moon like glass.
A moth writes letters on the leaves.
The platform hums a thin goodbye.
A suitcase learns the shape of wait.
We lift a little sun on string
and let the river take the rest.