Warm Spring Night

Brooklyn, 2015

 

Sounds like

street slipping from

the grip of rubber tires

slapping cobble stones,

subway steps echoing like

a giant throat agape,

a crescendo of screaming

steel-song, sung where

steel fist meets electric

hiss of third rail.

 

Flint flicks propane onto

old tobacco flakes,

the subtle staccato static of

lit cigarettes glowing

golden globes from sidewalks like

giant redwoods abruptly up from earth,

a street lamp, so

–as though occupying an opportunity for

serenade among cacophony–

seeking to offend the descent

of sunlight settling

in suburban distance,

whose soft peach palate

–by dark silhouettes of passing cloud sets,

by low alphabet of gliding geese–

seems shredded,

smeared,

subject,

as it appears,

to our violent urban orchestra.