sunset behind the trees but no
stars, rainwater falling invisible
miles in droplets & turns & twists
and silently (individually) touching her
cheek (but together on the sidewalk
a frightening roar) chalk-art reflections
of an intersection red green white
lights into the night a lost cool
path we take along sherbert back
alleys dripping contrast impossible to
reproduce the air's delight with our
noses; and here a lost singing mumbler -
a surprise bee hovers across a windowbox a
gift of pollen in exchange for vital sugar -
a messenger from chaos that tumbles away
a tiny wobbling stability in an otherwise dream
in her eyes reflections of the black forever sky
like the end of the world or at least my life -
at my feet a blue gasoline-striped puddle
suddenly gone to music and the stars
become audible tinkling from above
the rooftops onto which they are falling,
rolling bells bumping across shingles
dropping onto the stones below with the water
where it is pooling and the people are wet and
the grass is wet and there is sunset behind the trees but no stars.