Wind, rising in the alleys.
My spirit lifts in you like a banner streaming free of hot walls.
You are full of unshaped dreams . . .
You are laden with beginnings . . .
There is hope in you . . . not sweet . . . acrid as blood in the mouth.
Come into my tossing dust
Scattering the peace of old deaths.
Wind rising out of the alleys
Carrying stuff of flame.