two traffic barrels wonder if they should crack the street / split the asphalt like an egg / see what spills out. or if they should imagine themselves as spiderwebs / snaring a city’s descending ashes / clung tightly to circular frames. one barrel whispers to the other / the reply is a stuttered hymn / a plastic rasp. they are the pulse of rust and rain / flickering stripes / smoke-glint on iron / ghosts of a steely and dust-bitten world. they lean closer / barricade lights nearly touching / soft pulses under blue sky. they whisper of silver platters and things they cannot eat / oil-slick dreams sliding between orange bands. a yellow caution tape snake slithers by / coiling in a wind’s clutch / curling toward and away from the barrels. they wait for the night crew / who’ll roll them back to their stations / with street tremors below weighted bases. for now / they press into each other’s shadows / the city’s hum beyond the frame / the asphalt cooling as the day exhales. still / the question hovers like fog above street / should they crack the ground beneath them / or let it hold / fixed / silent / as / fault / or as choice?