Down the asphalt poured like licorice,
the street is theirs
sweat of tar echoing
from machines and men
who climbed the canopy of day
till quiet as a pendulum
the blue geometry of evening fell
on fresh oil and old woods.
The street is ours, winding past our windows:
song of trees buzzing over pitted gray
avenue against a dizzy balcony of clouds, as
this season rushes white to pink
to bloom in burgundy, feverish as summer flesh…
Did this green-eyed ghost know us in the snow?
Who coaxed us down an open path, between
the widening hours of new buds,
betwixt a swirl of jade and wind?
Which hand built this mortal arch
from the dead, the fixed, the inexplicable
multitude of leaves?