Morning. (After Gauguin)

''Whence come we?'' The out-of-bus emerging crowd sweeps me along under a sky prayer-rug small between skins of steel where vocations wait to be lifted to. ''What are we?'' Shadow of a cloud on the pavement,

jackhammer throwing up pieces of the street. I move along, a gu| est of window glass, of silence high above me. ''Whither go we?'' Same elevator button to same desk. Same electric typewriter, same old new decisions. All day I cross in that first morning light.

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