Spangled
Seasons
Under hazed New York
spheres,
spring sousing Riverside, earlier
cocooned
in the Moor shedding off
mover's
trip, bundled molehills against
walls
–once sparks we strung
onto
a nebulae over
nights
on Federal Hill, you and
I
trudge on.
Trails we looped
between
Chesapeake,
Susquehanna
and
the
Hudson, Venus sputtering
on
Pennsylvania woods these,
too,
we tucked abreast in
memory,
if Manhattan
spares
us.
Our cherry
noon-s
have leaped into infinity
from
finiteness; as well warbled
peace
from cypress groves at
Inner
Harbor, dandelions mirroring
our
masquerade, a yucca spurting
by
the window squirrels flying
a
trapeze on pines mocked,
ends of days orioles
griped
about—we plucked to
spangle
our seasons. Soon mere
revenant:
Baltimore winters we
skidded,
wincing but
un-bruised.
I posed for you
that
summer cicadas plunged
into
passion deaths, smearing
wind shields Fells Point's
mists
we eluded fogged.
Tall suns
now spear
mornings
at the Moor, we flex
our
years on West Broadway: summers
on
a mountain lake maybe, a bowery at
Brooklyn
Gardens in the fall, sunset
behind
Grant's tomb perhaps, or by
Shakespeare's
lagoon, divining
on
its surface the play
of
wind on our
dreams.
by
Alee