The sound of passing traffic,
If only for a moment,
Resembles waves rushing to sand,
As Mozart’s only violin concerto
Chronicles the pointless excesses and austerities,
And the flame fades into the cobalt hour.
Always, the traffic moves like a hinged serpent,
Against constellations of blue cornflower,
And the sky hung like an unfulfilled prophecy
Over cityscapes and graveyards, waiting.
The bright song of swallows,
The ripe fruit uneaten.
This is the center of the year
From which the days pivot
And the months turn
into past and future.
An occasional car splits
From the group onto an exit, into a slender life,
As clouds gathered as on a dark stage,
Releasing raindrops in a chaos of rhythm.