1 New Poem

Days of Brutalism

When lights come on,
jittering television snow in
BNI sign, it casts
through tree shadows
to the imposition of stone,
smooth-pouring concrete and
broken bone;

I listened to chanting
vibration of the city floors,
hand-scripts made blank
through passed sands
of age.

While line drying fell
through sun shade,
twisted in breeze,

There was a crackling
wish winter that made
me green again:

New against
plastic pitch of breathing

And matching wood plank stance.