The street lamp looks down;
it has dropped something
and spends the whole night
searching around its feet.
The rumble of a jet, and the fast road
blocks away, roaring like a cataract.
The scent of mown grass,
and of the body that mowed it.
The sidewalk, made of warm squares
heaved by maple roots,
covered with hieroglyphs in chalk.
A maple sapling, its trunk
wrapped to the knee
like the legs of a racehorse,
galloping straight up.
At dawn the prodigal sun returns
accompanied by equatorial birds
and a floral entourage.
What good has it done us to labor so
when all are rewarded?
Let the spade fall, then,
and join the feast.