Warm Spring Night

Sounds like street

slipping from the grip of

rubber tires slapping cobble stones,

subway steps echoing

in that giant throat, agape,

a crescendo of screaming

steel-song sung

where steel fist meets

electric hiss of third rail.

Flint flicks propane

onto old tobacco flakes,

the subtle staccato static of

lit cigarettes glowing

golden globes from sidewalks

a street lamp

seemingly seeking to offend

the descent of sunlight

settling in suburban distances,

whose soft peach palate

–by dark silhouettes of passing cloud sets,

by low alphabet of gliding geese–

seems shredded,

smeared,

subject,

as it appears,

to our violent urban orchestra.