I can see hands from here,
Pulling years away from the reach of all these new places,
Savoring tarnished doors,
In the wet air of night avenues,
And back seat make outs.
I can see your mom on Sunday,
Toiled indifference to our follies,
Our moves to a life so big,
Deftly held in a trembling hand.
“Can I see you again?”
Like the buses at the intersection,
Moving to scheduled vistas
Taken like snapshots
From another overpass
With trains underneath
And billowing April clouds
Against the blue velvet of a painting
Hanging on the wall of a house
On some street at the edge of town.