In the corrugated rungs
of rose-colored and canted sunset,
bootsoles leave little hexes
on the sidewalk, I have forgotten what flag I fly.
A dead queen from a rainy town
rides the somnambulate bat
to the corner of the evening panic.
An old story paying a call in the wee hours.
Lovers in third floor windows
with their backlit hair and boxes of geraniums
have it out,
each in their own way
masterful, like movies
playing silently from televisions.
Fate, a siren, a wooden floor,
reticent chairs, becalmed objects,
real kisses, kisses in daydreams,
fading horns of the city - a limousine retreats,
I can hear the stopped tune of the workplace. Voices sink
into the intersection like a river marked
in different colored inks, each route hidden
as in a crowded room where sounds and images
float away, and no one can see
the hands at the piano.
Time so full of speed and accuracy,
digital river. In neon
a small word
magnifies, and shrinks back
to its normal size,
infinitesimal. The urge
keeping us alive.