On the street at midnight,
I hear a hatbox latch
fall open in an attic closet,
and then the silence

of the library of Alexandria.
Even the low clouds'
dark stucco seems applied
by the drowsiest journeyman.

The fire hydrant stares
from its tri-color face
at a branch fallen
in the street. Up the chain,

a snail punches its
antennae, a great excursion
to the loose bolt
where a little water drips.











From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 185, no. 3, Dec. 2004. Used with permission.