from "Sixteen Ways of Looking at Streetcorners"

i.

Cool liquid sipped
past a woman’s lips
flush with summer.
To see them kissed
would be a disgrace.

A man’s gaze
of lust and want
is some safe prodding,
probing, if
concealed by distance.

The round of breasts
stretches white fabric
and draws male attention
from across the street, yet

under an awning,
dark circles under a boy’s eyes,
darken further – I wonder
why?


ii.

In a corner of sky
wreathed in grey clouds,
the color of stratosphere filters
through slow moving wind –

the sway of purple flowers
releases a tart perfume
that delights my nose,
but tears at my eyes.

Silver arms of a clock
perpetually spin.
The sound of the bell's
crescendos splash and

a stop sign’s authority
wanes
as each season passes.

iii.

Blasphemy, to me,
is making love in too much clothing –
it chokes, condemns flesh
to craving,
unslakeable thirst.

There are reflections
in the false eyes of passing faces,
in black lenses devoid of laughter –
they make us both seem
so remote.

Street sounds are indiscernible
from the overhead speakers’
Bebop discord.
Are you even listening?

Blunt edges of sound:
scrape of concrete
on iron chair vacated
before coffee could be served.
Muted notes
in the bodies of a basses,
on the tongues of trumpets.