AT SUMMER'S PACE

Silences of a summer night
weave curling wisps of ivy and oak leaf,
a smoky wash of rain over root-cracked sidewalk
into cloud-cast shadows from a hurricane moon.

Silence wars against nests of coiling iron and broken curbs,
splashes of construction mud on fence post and parked car,
ragged bags of men asleep on sidewalks.

Silence is green and black, streetlight white,
limp curve of a hotel's gold striped-canopy,
strict arches of a museum flattered by mist and silhouette.

Silence wears exhaustion like the graveyard shift turning home,
a leaf's flutter into a cobweb,
aimless stalk of a prowling dog, a dying wind.
A layer of dew casts its coat across the grass.

A KIND OF MOURNING

What I remember is enough:
elegance, mischief, surrender
to curling, jazz cascades of Cole Porter,
low, smoky roll of evening laughter,
drape of azure scarf, of wind-loosened hair.

Stillness was beauty, was her body formed
at the cusp of mirror and marquee.
I walked over to kiss her.
Fifteen hours later,
I was still thinking
how her mouth covered mine.

There is beauty in a runner, in velocity
and a body's arch toward the ending line.
I remember the day, the hour, the casual, happy greeting
as she turned full attention to my arrival.
It was Sunday, 4 o'clock.
She wanted my opinion of Chagall. There was a new museum show
and she'd heard enough, she said, of illness and the war.

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