It’s a lotTo force an obstinate brace
Against good morning, the smile
That burns right through you
With the knowledge that
At the first stones throw
This street would
Bleed itself dry.
To imagine the heft of a stone
Thrown high into the clear blue.
The sudden numbness of elbow,
Confident of its fall.
This contrary dawn
From an open mouthed sleep
Falls awake, to a gluttonous
Yolk of sun, seed of day,
Bearing down upon shoulders
Until they slope, unbroken
To the ground.
A painter on the sidewalk
Is getting it all down, as if
It were somehow important
Like breathing in and out.
A mud colored sparrow
Is turned from my stone,
Transforming my violence
To a blotch, frozen in water.
Street lamp poles bent
To ape the servile stoop
Of morning workers, who stop,
Peek over a shoulder,
Weigh the perspective,
Then move on.
Above Zervo’s shoe repair,
A window sidles up
To release an arm
Fingering into the air
For a touch of rain
Or wing, then disappears.
I move on, breathing
In and out.
E. Charles Rolwing III 