Earth soon to harden inside winter,
starlight on blue snow. We stand
below a Powell’s Bookstore awning
knocking back the hot grease
of scotch whiskey as rain
lids all nests, sweeping blue brooms
across the city after a day
long friction of cold sandpaper winds.
Thinking ourselves strong poets pulling
stride beyond the red bricks of academia,
we find a traverse between light and depth,
reciting poems written out of new hardships,
freeing our reach from our suburban roots.
Heavy rain drums and hisses over sidewalk
and street as we pause to listen.
See the tall and thin sax player
below a jeweler’s awning
arch notes like spun orchids
gust-carried inside city canyons.
We toast the store clerks arranging
mannequins for morning display,
plastic hands gesturing towards the inbound.
