2:29 a.m.

Late night, under rain
the corner lights bleed
thoughts into blackness of streets
you walk. Trees silhouette
against silhouettes, just
ready to come back from
the dead. February night.
A train makes its own small
thunder somewhere over by
the river. An old tank of a mailbox
nobody uses anymore holds
the key. A kid’s mitten laid atop 
says look I am waiting.

Gingko leaves 

Ginkgo leaves since autumn
Have spoiled beautifully underfoot.
We stop and look at the colors.
The yellows and golds of fall:
I remember that weird fog 
of radiance they had around them,
the young bodies of leaves.
But this afterlife is better.

rainy Sunday afternoons

On rainy Sunday afternoons
it’s looking at mummies in museums
or thinking about first loves.
On rainy Sunday afternoons,
things spoil into that ripeness
they were meant to have.

the things old people say to you

The things old people say to you
on buses, total strangers. The sum
of a life speaks. Things
like this. Water leaves little 
aftertaste. These things
are not water.