With rain wishes slip
through city grates again,
fish-shaped and quicksilver-
skinned, they rush
storm drains
that empty to the sea,
waves of longing
flung headlong
in the bay.

Only an empty mug
invites a friend
to fill it
or so I read
and mean now
to catch
this quietness,
this afternoon
light, the lazy way
dust motes gild
space, how a spoon
holds the sun.

From an indistinct arc
lamp-lit and far
from home
we watch
the underflow—
this slow river
brown as tea
muddled
with reflected stars.

Off the edge
above our heads
yellow moons
outrage the sky.

Split-skinned and soft
as a breast
a fig
finds a bird’s beak
I ate I ate
the bird sings
and the fig hangs
unevenly—sweet wound
crescent moon
so recently round
alive now
and hollow with hungry ants