Gray on gray shadow falls on shadow
where I stand, forty floors below the
sun. I strain upward where the birds but
seldom fly where in sheers of wind not
kind to wing window looks on window.
Fingers joined hands on brow I plead for
vision, what eye can see concealed by
height from those not high. I cannot
make it out. Moses' arms may not have
tired but mine do, and eyes too tire of
looking up. I am bound to sidewalked,
peopled, street leveled, common ways and
not to high stations. Buffets dealt by
passers-by goad me on, and concrete
paths conduct me beneath the towers.