Natural not to talk of music
                             while men are working in the sun.
                                                       Rosmarie Waldrop, "Rhapsody"

it's a nearly silent morning
mourning doves rest on branches
sparrows lift

Christmas trim in the tropical garden
through the leaded glass

clouds move on
from this Moorish palace

                          *

taking pictures obsessively
finally nauseated by that as by commodities, stopped
saw         :
sky         moon  and  palm
 

         the stucco houses half-lit like memories

                          *

can't get a handle    on what's real
                 overgeneral
             about even detail—
that's part of why
I like Tim—
like even his shadow

                         *

when windows are open—
smooth wind, noise
and clear hills
my eyes can feel

                          *

after he talked to me so long
I felt stalked        (tight against)
probability of

                           *

why the lights across the bay tremble, nights

                          *

                                    yesterday's flurry of snow's today's headline

next to many a color, the tiny surprise of ice

                           *

dreamt he curved our words into colors
parts of the neon sweep across the San Francisco night

sometimes it’s boring to see this street
sometimes the street's what takes us

a pigeon puffs his iridescent feathered neck
jerks straight up
the other moves away
both go when they hear a crow

maple tree shadows

grass clippings blowing in clumps

houses    peaceful cats    their paws tucked under them

while the pines stay still
the maple trees move in the wind

sounds of mourning doves and jays
here every year

one morning   cop cars everywhere

keep going      the street reminds us
we’re memory

it’s simple   as the white butterfly
as my neighbor’s flag
or that one’s sheets on a line

sidewalk   weeds  potholes
phillips street

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