Sunday Morning, 6 A.M.

Surrounded gray by interlocking noise,
Across the chasm bridge and moving moat,
Into the pointed teeth of the abyss,
A crosswind stinging high, and slipping low,
A traveler: a wanderer, a waif,
Amid the pilgrims, frozen, bent, or warped,
Lopsided and misshapen with their loads.

How few there are who hear for stopping ears
With sounds of luxury from far away —
A few more who might see, with heads unbowed —
The slow advance of many into one,
Like dust motes on a sunbeam, settling
Into an attic, locked away and lost,
Forgotten, hopeless, locked away and lost.

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