August 14


One day I saw hosts of sparrows drop
from a purple sky, went with that story,
down alleys where cats lined
cans for children to knock down
late nights when the summer months
burned and the light turned the mountain
into a long orange storm.

Walk the sidewalks when the city’s quiet.
Chili and bread drift from the screened windows
that smell of rust. A cat laughs and falls
into the dark and the wind makes mulberries
and elms speak the hollow friction
of distance, cars busy at midnight on the highway,
trains clanging in the downtown yards.
It’s hard to see the stars through the steam
that rises from the hot floors and the Spanish
on the porches sounds like singing.
Over the roof tops the children watch the sky
turn purple and the sparrows drop like rain.

Post a Comment

Your email is never shared. Required fields are marked *