On Floyd, Hanover

or Grove
the streets, in a quiver,

a blast or a shove,
they utter pies in the sky

–pies in the sky…
And they come, come alive in the ears.

The streets they even cry

worn cobblestone tears
that bleed out into the gutter

–out from under laced-like

sides of its tired dark
tarp. There, the streets sputter

a turn or a twist, reaping

a walk out of wandering
feet hung, hung at the heart.

And there goes
Shields, Robinson

or Strawberry wrought
in between my toes,
they say

things you find in a vagabond’s

holdall:
a tree’s breath, staining passersby stares,

coins with Lincoln’s copper glare…
The streets they sometimes sway

secrets around a rusted wall:
respire an alley out of gray,

and then a small fair fairy garden.

Like crayon drawings, on the seven

hills, her streets throb scraggly colors,

and the root penciled sidewalks
tattooed with cafés and fallen bricks

they trip you, laugh wide

in a clap of leaves as the ground
kisses your face.
On Floyd, Hanover

or Grove…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Photo: Yves FALANGA