This is no boreas
No king east No
This the bitter breath
This the lung of lout
Harbinger of a world sneeze
Hear it kick cans and spit
In the grey faces
Of early morningers
Black bags like the fruit of flies
Torn open rolling metal and board
And bonesshards into ear drums
Of unconscious
Women behind windows
This is no spring zephyr, no spritely ghost
It moans as a child then pile drives the door
Street cleaning dung beetles
Scuttle to restore balance
By one, A Good Day is wished
And the words
Are torn
From his teeth
Hermits pass in their shiny shells
In condensed warm air
And the stink of leatherette
Their softness rocked by radios
But Have No Fear, they will.
They will crawl out soon
Joining us in the din
All awake and not
Shall hear the roar
