there’s always this feeling
of detachment in the morning air
in the placement
of people
on white powdery streets
chill as the atmosphere on Uranus
or under the archways
of West Labyrinth Street where homeless
folks live in cardboard trunks
— making their homes
without love or hi-tech needments
or vials of beautiful flowers many regard
as functional — placed beneath
digital clocks on polished sunlit tables
in plush and decorous rooms.
— outside of this there’s a transparency
and like all those in early light
whose treasure is warmth
i too feel that pulse and see those shadows
of strangers white in the frail
sun recede and advance
about me — about us like messengers
that liaise between their remote worlds
with predictions
assessments or useless news to prove
the weight and significance
of their valueless powers.
