Tuesday, November 08, 2011


The predawn sky is lilac. There's no fog
and down the rain-wet sidewalk, hand in hand
the usual couple with the usual dog
come sniffing for a latte. We demand
so much of life, ignore the little gifts:
the orange edges of a leaf, a cloud
like crimson ribbon, overcast that lifts
above a city's sleepy morning crowd.

Broadway runs east, but there is no horizon
behind the hills: the vista's lined with trash
and soggy leaves. The rush of auto wheels
drowns out the silent shout the sun gives, rising.
High in downtown towers, windows flash
like square-cut topazes in frames of steel.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside

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