In the smoggy mist
neighboring villages
are drenched;
I drive the road home
in the lighted grove.
On every dusty window
in the summer heat
finger prints-
the clawing of children
bored by confinement?
It is a thing of sorrow,
the rumble of cars
before my house, at noon
in the summer wind
Does the reflection
on my dust coated window
feel the same?