It had something to do with the rain. Leeching loamy dirt. And the way the back lane came alive. Half moon whispered, go. . For a while, I heard you. Missing steps in the street.
Now that the furniture's returning to its goodwill home. With dishes and last week's paper. Rumors and elections. Crosswords and an unending wars. . The black in our fingers.
Rolling cables slick with beer. To hang up on the broken stands. The houselights lit our injuries. For crowds with plastic cups that clapped. . Beneath our tender sleepy brooms.