morning vends the after glow.

i bend down at Haeberle
the smallest strip mall
facing east, it
greets the sun with me
i am open to this
temple
wall of pharmacies
Chinese to go, clinics
and coin operated laundry
empty at 6:30
ghosts of the city,
hoof, to foot, Portage Road is
printing man, man, man
over history just scraping through,
endlessly indifferent
to the domino rowed
head stones, populating
the asphalt's undiscovered shore-
empty markers spider still capture
this slice of time,
this Gaussian morning
in their gaze, and sink
its holy moment in to
granites torpid gravity, as
my own living hand lets go
the living thing
listing words around invisible streams
at Haeberle the Plaza fills
with prayers not said, but heard by me.