shymy dew caught on barely blossoms now, the different academics,
differently walking than talking and on to Camino Real- the ROYAL
PATH by the new england where they buy gold cause more than
paper does it weigh
the only new garage doors on the block,
we had a guy come paint them that green of Fenway hinges
left black, looks sharp now we rent them out a sixteen year old
towing a hummer first job, mother still in apron, wipes her
hands from dough
the balcony over
the enclosed alley they just throw things there-
food scraps, papers, whatever- the younger brother
recounts these stories and can barely supress laughter,
the older one wishes he hadn't (friends) the sound of Portuguese,
not
turning around to see the source it's all very much like a sketch
for a pristine tank someone long ago drew up, a museum tank, never
to be used, little dashes
where light falls, fit to be the treasury engraver,
and everything dissipates with the same cadence as the engine below
falls into neutral
from one point,
John Hancock was to be seen from the best, elegantest angle
our arc of triumph at the end of the avenue, a deliberately
exaggerated vertical signature being eaten by fresh mist.
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