This morning, breath is jealous, there's an inch
of red at the edge of the sky, I saw a bearded guy
walking his dog or a bearded god walking his demon,
the lights of a building where everyone slept in white cloth
or a burning rusty ship at anchor, last night I saw a naked
moon, this morning I saw crows, one made a crack about the
heat and waited for an answer, a wasteful day begins
that spills with light and wind, young insects
gripping leaves, gray angry mockingbirds,
green theories, smoke and sweet ambition,
small and hard but not a seed, fingertips and cigarettes,
lost petals, swaying magazines, an elegy for last night, gone
like a train with no one aboard in a polished sky
with no edges or sides, the light falling through
that came a long way to fall on blacktop and mockingbirds
hunting with smiles on their faces. But another time is
hiding in this time, the wind is working on its music then,
small rain, a withered house, green secrets, a cloud above
the city, eyes with tender wings. A blistered place appears
and lifts a river on the map. Seeds on paper
in the sun are fading. Standing legible in rain, three
long old shadows. The chains can make a kind
of music, things can stir inside you on a working day.