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You, standing on the corner
of a leaf scattered street.
The wind scrapes past like a hundred claws.

You leaf through paper
on a wind streaked street.
Your dirty glasses reflect the sky.

You, raked by the wind
on a leaf scraped street,
blind and listening for cars.

You wait at a corner
while leaves wind through the street.
A hundred cars burn holes in the sky.

You, drifting along a dirty street
with the wind. The sky burns brown
as you move, head down.

You wind through hot brown streets.
You rub your glasses with your shirt,
trying to see. You leave.