Brick and plaster
Are nothing for the master.
Can’t stop a roving eye
At the hustle down corner
Where mack meets mate
And check meets cross.
So the man
Can;
Listen to him
Rustle, blowing
Wind in your
Face;
It’s the place
And a lash
Falls to the
Precipice -
Edging, to the
Breath.

rjw, 1/8/93