Untitled still
Grey lined dream shelters sky,
while I am waiting for,
Eighteen men make a sidewalk
pacing space, also waiting for...
What do we fill within all that?
Rain perhaps will lend a hand.
One dream thus a messenger
as both thoughts here climb above.
A labor of hand and one of rest
parked just here in Spanish air
and one boy, English descended here.
Waiting for, and in between,
an unnamed voice and request.
Someone wanting more than dust.
Maybe that's what it means?
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