Liberties

I signed the papers, and the world created  out of all I have destroyed honestly doesn’t look  much different. A grainy whitish wind blows in   from Little Poland, and a human form in heavy gear screams unanswerable questions into traffic. Questions,  while inadequate to truth, are faithful to sorrow, so fair enough.   Inside the padlocked gates of Leal Rental  a grey pitbull shining like a nail could be the silver dog Argyreos and the sun on whose mat of light he sleeps    the gold dog Khryseos   forged by the god of metalworkers, masons, to guard the threshold  of King Alcinous’ legendary hospitality    and its founding principles of order. I have only ever wanted to see things as they are. Until I did, and experience  narrowed to a fact impossible to turn around in.    Now everything I need to fix it myself resides with Leal Rental,  in whose yard a conclave of articulated boom lifts  achieves the conspiratorial symmetry of    The Calling of St. Matthew or The Supper at Emmaus, raised basket platforms attentive, inclined in the manner that indicates  listening, in their posture a hint of nature    aspiring to weightlessness and the eye follows the Baroque Diagonal into a sky of vivid, structural  blue, premodern and cloudless.    The craftsman never blames his tools  yet is only as good as they are, which leads  to some uncertainty as to where the fault lies. Argyreos of Leal,    allow me to linger, as I too am between jobs.  A condo development, blocks-long, modular, pre-démodé has sailed in from an increasingly unaffordable future    flying the skull and crossbones of Tridel Communities but it is pleasant to lose oneself on Dupont Street  in the comforting presence of factory colours,   thoughts on their feet high