Less like a roadblock,
more like spilled mercury, of the eel and the harp—
orchids sharpen their tongues in the trees,
trellised morning glories
glorify every shadow's event horizon,
and yesterday's early afternoon showers,
cool evening and cooler night,
long-sleeved chills bright and forthcoming as headlights,
nightmare thunderclaps,
flashes of sudden jazz—
like finicky, icthymaniac gulls eye-plunging
through admirable loops to beak sardines—
distance themselves in the evening's
widening shadows. The television is on,
and soon I'll draw the shades.
The grass will continue to infiltrate the coral path
even in this moment of apparent abeyance,
and what passes will have passed
like baby teeth to toothless grins,
from delinquents to wild, invalid pensioners hanging on.
The light at weekend's end is always better.