More Poetry Outtakes

Zero

Once again for the first time,
my eyes darkening or squinting shut,
freezing a moment, stopping a now,
for a shirtless vagrant, a cold dump

without socks, soap, dignity.
They all had people once,
cuddled in the holds of ships,
then bone-fingered in sweatshops,

on glinting streets that rambled
to this nourishment of stones.
What can I do,
fettered with a thousand taboos,

dazed by the blank-eyed walkers
jingling the change in their pants,
but glance and remember
the filthy number of his face?