prospect nocturne

six fruit flies twist
mango above the kitchen tiles
pale with illuminated dust

at seven thirty, a low breeze licks the blind magenta
blushing off the city light on st. mark’s
she stands alone

through a window silent night plays
vespers in july
the moon carries water over a brownstone skyline like a high nimbus fumbling
dry lips against a reed puckering for the right note

conveying the curb’s yellow hip between grit and concrete
a daisy that has no voice on the sidewalk’s freestyle legend composed
of its own disenchanted roots

a storefront congregation steps out with some gospel

in clean pressed suits, black boys sing shiny shoes and rhythmic psalms
little girls with humming tongues & grandma’s hands and haute blue dresses focus
to a habitual baptism and learn how to braid each other’s souls

then there’s the corner store, fifty cents for two lollipops and easter’s here again
too sweet, too sweet . . . that corner store’s still open

she wet them lips, the rain fell down
painting her back on the door at 34 with red. he walked up on her and felt like christmas

there’s the air conditioner sound
a waterfall over brick and khaki flat boards
dirty glue propaganda paper
twitching and flapping through orange windows
she threads between the streets

yellow eels move in twos across the tarmac
suffocating dripping breathing
sinuously through the lush night
head lights bebop at 26 mph, painting yellow on my blind
i’m trying to find happiness
all I dream is silver war

rothko steals the horizon at 5:31 am