The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
This is the second digital collage created to illuminate Eliot’s “Preludes.” You can see the first one here. This is new territory for me and I would welcome honest critique.