There is a deep blue boulevard
where no stars hang
and the atmosphere drips
too cold to call rain
where sidewalks barelyremember where they’ve been
shifting slow and cracked
as if attempting cobblestone
windows wide and wideroverflow with
no one ever wanted
enough room for reflection
diners serve applehoodand mother pie
twenty-four
seven
curtainswings closed on landing
a single flight
absorb light
and the meaning of inside jokes.
There is a dark dream boulevardwhere children wait
solitude hanging from their shirt sleeves
as if they stopped playing for a moment
a million years ago
heard their names called
from the wonder of curtains
and held their breath
turning a deep shade of blue.
