In the Pre-Dawn Hours
Like a garbage truck careering
down the slush-thick winter side-street
over the last curb and the failsafes
into the dark cold water of the harbor
(briefly upset and permanently dirtied),
the investment class gets richer
without any aid but gravity
and its eternity of rigging.
But it is still possible to like things.
The snow still glows the dark tree branches
and makes any claim to owning it
ridiculous. The high-up windows
box and spill their light which hits
the ground, but only passing through
the human eye. Neither light nor air
nor water can be counted on as free—
the city’s paperwork fills every building
and the night staff labor without cease
to hide the mess. I still like things
but I feel my spine conceding its defeat—
the work of seeing tapers off, the joy
dims like a streetlight in the rising dawn.
I know the water doesn’t steal its color
from the sky, but all I see is sour white.
JOshua Daniel Edwin
Joshua Daniel Edwin writes and translates poetry. He was raised in Baltimore and has lived in Atlanta, Seoul, and New York. His work appears widely in print and online, including a translation chapbook from Argos Press and an upcoming poetry chapbook from Eggtooth Editions. He lives in Brooklyn with his wife and son.