white washed rooftops
stand uneven,
stacked up
in the soggy morning hour
against the steel-blue lake
that lowers onto them

its immutable lines carved
like wood veins
but it's a deception
if you look more closely, you'll see they change
ever so slightly

a brackish water that thickens as it rolls
like the egg whites that you whip
absent-mindedly while your cigarette shrinks,
with each red pulse
smoke rises up, the drum
moves the air in gentle gusts
undulating and then disappear