Stonemasonry
by Derek Godin
I awaken to the wind whistling through cracks in old plaster;
not everyone tasked with building a temple brick by brick
is blessed with the steady hand and steely nerve of a stonemason
the stick-on window tinting dulls the dawn but does not
fully cover each corner, and through a sliver of undiluted
daylight, I see a wind furious at being funnelled by
mere avenues, frothing at the corners, filling trees with torn
plastic trash bags, black petroleum nests for reusable birds
unearthed by the urban spring thaw, something anything
to clothe the buds until bloom, good taste and temper
be damned; and I get it, I too would reuse any available
rag to slot between me and my nakedness, cardboard
armour deflecting dust, dirt, and dogshit; I didn't ask
to be shielded by these walls in particular; its surfaces
are bare as a desert is bare, monolithic, faceless and foreboding,
stretching out the hours like sap, never cool enough
to harden into something concrete; don't fall prey
to the great lie of artificial light, soft and persistent as it is;
I've accrued more bruises here than I've seen sunrises
and the golden coin I once felt between my fingers
has fully dissolved into my palm, tender, in circulation
