dreamers..

poetry cont.

Sunday AM not in Manhattan

across the street: closed shops

where glass reflects this wide

light only, or faintly

etched on the sky, trolley

lines that the overhead

half open windows are

thinking. long, slant shadows

cast on the wan convrete

are of nearby fallen

verticals not ourselves.

lying longest, most still,

along the unsigned blank

of sidewalk, the narrowed

finger of shade left by

something, thicker than trees, 

taller than these streetlamps,

somewhere off to the right

perhaps, and unlike an intrusion of ourselves, 

unseen, long, is claiming

it all, the scene, the whole.