THE PROJECTS.

THE PROJECTS

In the projects I am wakened by

the sound of gunshots

down the street

the bitter wind is blowing

and I cannot see the back of my hand

in the deep night.

Shadows jump all around me

and the cold winter is upon us

just like shaped things that move like

time.
Thoughts are willed, stilled.

I am holding onto a breathless moment

that is caught in a spiderweb of dew,

like the forgotten shadows of March

I commit myself to the act of sorrow,

the broken bones of night.

I cannot hear myself breathe.

They are listening, like moving things,

and sometimes you can hear them-

skulking about in the stillness,

a man moving in his slumber.

I found myself on borrowed time.

Like a web of dreams that lie

awake at night and cause me to

scream in desperation,

shadows marching upon the stone.