Words become a watershed, the
express of desire, a fountain draining
to the ground, forming streams of release.
The engine of day caresses the eyes as they
mirror the images of streets and voices crowding
into fast lines.
Hats hold close the thoughts, while hands
point or find pockets for rest.
The day compresses into a flatness of
bland colors as dusk merges with street lights
and shadowed faces.
Roger Singer 