The streetlight, white as copy paper,
tilts between the tree’s big arms,
slides out like spilled wine:

I think it is the moon for twenty
minutes. Above us, stars are marking steps
of sky, dancing some waltz no one is watching –

here we push back Citronella smoke’s
sad breath; I can’t remember where
you got that shirt, the red one, it’s
the color of a picture of a heart.