Plodding of Bootless Feet

My night is taken aback by the plodding bootless feet trekking to sleep under canal bridges

There is no real caveat the facade of this city is refinement memory for bureaucrats is to sandblast granite and scrub copper roofs

How can I say I suffer from loss when they once held photographs their lives neatly framed by schedules or gentle needles to numb neglect?

Fingerless gloves end arms which once embraced now grief congeals their ankles seizes up knees like March snow an old crust breaks the flow of crystallized tears

There is no color except fauve in gray scale.