She rolls up her dress
blue flowers over boxers
near the Black Muslim.
☯
At ninety-one, how
many other naps has she
taken in sunlight?
☯
The floor, worn away
into grimacing profiles,
into continents.
☯
The fly seeks the sun,
never getting through the screen
last week of July.
☯
Her hair, purple waves
over a determined stare,
guitar on her back.
☯
The terns flap southeast
and what if it’s the last time 
I behold such?
☯
A short maple’s shade
two inches short of my ledge
neck craned for the bus.
☯
An immense stone hand
holds two figures in its palm; 
a son and father.
☯
Gull on a thermal,
mistaken, one instant, for 
stolen gossamer.
☯
Raindrop to pavement
softer, just a touch, than one 
footstep in the night.
☯
Her square Pan Am bag
holds her skirt down in the back
at long last, the train.
☯
Ford F-150,
curbside, signal blinking, some 
armor sans a knight.
☯
I take this long drink
of cool air through my window,
savoring nightfall.
☯
Two crows on the track
one without a bite of bread 
follows the one with.
☯
Wind doesn’t whisper
it reminds us of how we’ve 
mislaid memory.

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