My wistful mind
	considers
		heights
			my eyes could never see
The streets on which I walk 
	can rumble in the thoughts
		that I consider best
Yet
   no one else
	can flutter to the depths
		for first hand
			views
				of what I comprehend
Those cars
	beside the curb
		can fill my soul
			with questions
I can 
	blend with
		knowledge dusted
			from the beaches
Of an urban sea
	where humor
		leaps from musty bricks
That even now
	can love the dense of fog
Employ my smile
	with pictures scraped
		from visions of
			insanity
See pedestrians
	walking by
		as shadows disappear
In mirrored glass
	upended
		by the gazes
			buried at the feet
Of neon stencils
	bleeding from a star

(c) 1996 James Oliver Smith, Jr