a long pavement, repaired

the pavement has been repaired in three places, none of which matched the original stone. the new asphalt is too dark, the old paving too pale. between them, the bones of the city show themselves as the seam of two periods that did not consult each other.

somewhere underneath, a pipe was fixed. above, the dog who lives at number 14 still crosses at the same point and pauses at the patch, sniffing, as if some earlier walk had recorded itself in the place where the road was opened.

cities heal in patches. the patches heal in time. neither finishes. neither needs to.

field note: the second patch (the small one) has a single shoe-print pressed in before it set. a child's, maybe. or a cat's.