High bells, highballs, tall trees
thumping the doozie dry
As does the tenor's tone
so does the noodle in glasses
on the telephone at the end of the bar that curves in wallops
(Keeping us all corrupt and belly up)
With a seamless stride and trumpet and drums
(The trio ends unfinished)
Whence to stare?
(There is no wind herein)
only dust all abustle
And men who've painted our corner pink
(just bodega-colored now flesh-tint and garish as before)
Summer unofficially prances into prominence
(turning off the spout-bright sprinklers)
Rain falls on cicadas in Kansas City
(whence the quince tree?)
Where did he go that little ray of Idaho?
(rain falls on under-muscled orioles in Baltimore)
Old ice is replenished with new ice
(radio plays something Spanish)
Diamond shapes erase a trace of dust on dormant doorsteps
The Detroit radio laughs again Calypso-toned
And as for today, this day
are we hearing voicesOr seeing things?
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