Urban climbing up
concrete hills, what
season is it anyway?
Four straight days
of light-flooded windows
spark new leaves
on the basil plant.
I said it many times:
I need a bigger sky,
larger moon-stage,
vast and brooding.
On that shallow shore
just north of here: why
are the boats left
floating free all night?
What small city sparkles
to the east? Why can’t
I keep the ocean’s west
location ever straight?
And can I keep this
golden fondness with
me past autumn?
