Member Poem

We hear the trolleys as the early morning birds
and the moon’s light in the ringing in glass bottles.
We see the night time fade through our blinds
though we are blind.
We rise as wraiths, turn on the lights
and hide our nudity away. Alas!
For now’s the coming of the day.
 
The sidewalks hold the punters hostage
paying for a tary conscience;
paying for assurances
held within indifferent streets.
Kindness is a weapon used against
the creeping guilt in alleyways and nooks –
clearing from the doorways
as the sun begins to rise,
like roaches trampled by the righteous man.
 
The shades remain for a minute in the awnings
then are swept away by hands and hats and steamy breath;
and tobacco lit, and mouths moving to replace
the sound of early morning birds.
 
There is no time but the ashen time.
Posterity is one long ending,
eternity is the final day.
The universe’s autumn blade
dictates the movement of the worlds,
the stars, and the vendors selling clemency;
a semblance of the reluctant tithe
as absolution from ourselves.
 
I see myself, I look away.
I observe how I look away.