Mass Transition

The wind blows grit, dirt and glass –
the shed skin of downtown, in
a horizontal hail –
Penetrating
all protection,
the city's shattered mask
becomes a part of the
wandering stranger.

Cold blasts strip minds,
hearts,
souls,
of justified iniquity,

Wind-Burn, like a flaming, airborne
Truth
Scars with crimson dignity the
blinded pavement-steppers,
Looses the fury of the
wayward stop sign,
whistling as if the work of it all was already
half-done.

Erich Campbell

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