Our Times

Adding and subtracting time from the labor of days Over and over the pouring of sweat on numbers While on the refrigerator door the paper mound raise Of bills unpaid, and the polite voice that customers Know unmistakeably as the cut off point of water And of light: this is the season when men despair At the pounding cold concrete pavement with fear Of callous mornings cold as a heart. So long after The promises and no Jordan yet, the hands grow Soft from inacitivity, in the void of the eyes we know We cannot look each other straight, we cannot speak But somehow hope makes each day begins the week. What shall I tell you for all your faith in tomorrow O yes the sun shall be there, but shall dead leaves And dry grass, and new things to make us sorrow More. Each heart now its own lying web so weaves Since drowning do not think how safe what they hold They die threshing still, and shall I call that bold?