I heard the wind hiss
at the corners of my window —
the cold despairing wretch
of the morning’s day.
The light from Eastern shadows
all broken up and frayed —
the voices unremarkable
from a darkened hall way.
These are times
of reckless unknowing —
where the streets
meet the strain of the dark,
where you sit
in judgment’s attrition—
and where the maker
masks his mark.
*****
SSW
Steven S. Wallace 