A curtain. Formed white.
Soft folded ribbons. Linen eyes
lust under the handle of breezes,
searching the alley below;
considering heavens of gods and
men walking.
Strong sunlight. Warming rays.
A morning of fullness surrounds
summers fragrance; tar paper roofs,
garbage, stagnant water.
The breath of the city.
Voices slip from windows. Coughing;
the remnants of heavy sleep. A crying baby;
hope breeds from the fire of youth.
The curtain strains for escape. Grounded.
Remaining. Life passes beneath as it waves.
Roger Singer 