Classic Poem

Hair and faces glossy with sweat in August
at night through narrow streets glaring with lights
people as if in funeral processions;
on stoops weeds in stagnant pools,
at windows waiting for a wind that never comes.
Only, a lidless eye, the sun again.

No one else in the street but a wind blowing,
store-lamps dimmed behind frosted panes,
stars, like the sun broken and scattered in bits.