What I see first: honeysuckle, then the trestle.

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.