第四个

Ghost under the light

这首诗在第二天被展示。

The tendrils of my hair illuminate beneath the amber glow.

Bathing.

It must be this one.

The last remaining streetlight to have withstood the test of time.

The last yet to be replaced by the sickening blue-green of the future.

I bathe. Calm; breathing air of the present but living in the past.

The light flickers.

I flicker back.