Heat

The gabardine of sorrows was worn and frayed;
What shade there is was narrow and was spare,
Pruned to give solace in shadow of gray somber.


High window and a burning sill let a still light in;
Mote-filled spotlight falls an oblong on the floor,
Spilled there in twisting shaft of obscene white.


Under this heat men die beneath the same sun.

City-Scape

Clouds, dirty and blue, preview coming storms.


With hook on block high upon wide shoulders,
We have made of ourselves stevedores of art.


Raw egg and stout is good breakfast for the City,
Down with fifth of whiskey on a table for guests.


The romance of a yellow warming of the sun
On brick walls resounds strains in the street.


Rain comes unexpectantly and unannounced. 


A small pattering of drops smooths the heat
To smoke the pavements in hisses of steam.  


Life at best is but the briefest of enchantments,
Spaces filled between the cradle and the grave;


Empty of all reason, and savage within its boast
Of meaning and its many religions of conformity.


A hard rain washes away all traces of our sins.