There’s nothing to do
and so the cat does nothing—
asleep in the sun
Lying sick in bed
listening to the far-off
hiss of wind and cars
“Chiseled dagger” moon—
remembering poetry
beneath it at dusk
*
Contorting her face
on the train so she can tweeze
stray hairs from her chin
In the blue above
a squat government building
the faint frowning moon
Chitter of dry leaves
on the sun-bleached sidewalk
in a swirl of wind
*
Tock-tocking windchime
in a blowing Spring garden—
cat huddles with me
Lunching on the street—
skinny pigeon at my feet
stabbing at the crumbs
Under foggy skies
lattices of power lines
and pink plumb blossoms
*
Rescued from brooding
by five twitting hummingbirds
feasting in a tree.
