Cobblestones Chisel-forced into form, pounded into place among others, we pave the city’s first east-west street; shadow-cold at dawn. Holy heels tap tap tap across our chilled grey granite as pastors and priests walk to and from church, and when they run to meet after-sermon mistresses laid bare on their backs across ours. Beneath such heat the stench of horse dung rises - trapped below, we sweat. Karen Pierce Gonzalez
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