It’s a lake. It’s a bridge. It’s a hunk of steel. It’s my take, it’s my hitch, it’s my evening meal. By the lake is my wedge in the hyper-real hypervision of the 21st century. Here she wakes by the ledge by a brink she feels. As a colour as a weather, she’s metallic blue. With the green glass of her windows and the ruby of her Rocket and the vendors in her markets and the verdigris, the verdigris the roofs of the 19th century on a triangle building on a spire. She’s a condo. She’s a parkette. She’s a Firkin Bar. She’s I want to. Do you want to? Yes, I want to. She’s Toronto. She’s the fact that we can’t fake it since you can’t fake a mosaic. She’s New York’s younger sister in a flirty cloud-blue skirt. She’s new gold; she’s the 21st century flirt. The blue of the water, the grey inside the why, the silver of complexity, the haze of ambiguity. the growing ache, the price of mistakes: a figure by the lake bent over by the weight of its future. Frightened burdened it wants to rise but when it looks across the century it tries to hide its eyes. Now it’s rising from a heap of sand and realizing that it’s taking command. There’s a silver nativity and a blue proclivity at the base of the city’s flame. There’s the shock of three O’s in her name. The O of her halo, The O of surprise, The polyglot O of the potentially wise.