At four o'clock the air pressure drops by two millibars and the first long sigh moves through the awnings on twenty-third street.
filed under: weather
mosoon
a city that never sleeps and never hurries.
I
the awning
A monsoon is not a storm, it is a season — a long hand-off between one kind of light and another. The city does not brace; the city loosens.
Continuous overcast through the late hour. Sidewalks will glow under the lamps. Awnings recommended. Umbrella optional. Hurry inadvisable.
II
the forecast
a column read under a streetlight
The underpass on the seventh arch holds a puddle the size of a small idea. Each drop arrives, expands, forgets itself, and is replaced.
There is no urgency in this work. The puddle does not need finishing. The rain does not need finishing. The hour is whatever the hour is.
A train passes overhead and the ripples briefly remember they are water. Then they forget again.
III
the underpass
eight degrees off true
The crossing is not square to the city. It never has been. The grid bends here by eight small degrees and the paint on the asphalt has accepted it.
Walk across at the pace the weather sets. The light cycles slow on rainy nights.
walk
do not run
3rd & elm
arrival soon
IV
the crossing
pane I
the lamp turns on
a moon, drifting
pane IV
awnings hold the rain
pane VI
somewhere a kettle
pane VIII
the rain remembers itself
V
the window
soon.
mosoon · poster No. 04 · transit bureau
printed on warm stock · two inks
VI