Sunrise and sunset have lost their meaning.

There is no metaphysical, quasi-poetic, deep explanation.

The sun rising or setting no longer dictates when I sleep or rise,

when I begin my day or end it,

or anything else of significance for me.

I have become unbound,

and there’s no reason for it.

Surely, it has just happened,

as a blocked sink overflows,

a burning log smolders,

as an old man dies,

a baby is born;

progression.

Rising sun batters through St. John’s fog,

and dense cloud cover,

as seagulls hover,

unconcerned.

A harbour city rocks awake,

machinery bangs and clunks,

predestined purpose drives,

the ideas became discussion became policy,

and a once-broken city for poor labourers,

is suddenly erecting condos from hillsides.

Progression.