FROM UP HERE
Shadows run charcoal, flat like
iron painted across walls as it
spills silently onto a fallowed field
suffering from a lack of love.
A blood sun spreads rivers over
streets and sides of tired brick buildings.
An emotional wind creates sounds
resembling words whispered through fences
and back porch screens.
Open windows are blinded to the figures
passing below; the alley holds dark
plans for the exchange of dreams.
A horn rattles the air. Factory doors release
sweaty shirts.
Roger Singer 