Submerged under verdancy, I crow
for both: sexy victory.
All the weight-bearing walls
pushed out like chairs, like the earth is love-drunk,
wet and expansive, saying too much.
I can’t remember the purpose of a wall or a brick.
The stack-train still rocks this bridge,
the backs of houses, including, yes,
the scant-bodied men who
tuck through at night, up the iron steps to the tracks,
with a couple of cans and a blanket. A brief slant
of late sun, not of time, lost in time.
The honeysuckle has my eye again, yes.
It is the green I hunt in art stores (emerald blend,
with yellow oxide?). A marmalade cat appears, hustles across the street,
takes shelter among the brush trash, bottlecaps, and cans.
Pays scant heed to my tsk tsk—disappears round the steps
where another bright and ugly mural tries
to pretty up the overpass.
If I could stand here a while longer.
I am thick with no memory.
I take a picture. I walk on.
