six

Sun. Traffic moves with only the suggestion
of one-passenger-per exhaust
arms gritty with sun crooked out
of open windows
while cyclists converge on corners
touching tips of tongues
to sweaty upper lips.

In the park, trees bring out leaves from storage
shake out their folds over sticky hems
wriggling with spring’s nervous fingers.
Birds in canopy condos built entirely
of dyed hair and cigarette filters
bide their time
before skies turn sticky with suggestion
and people pick small green scraps
from each other’s shoulders
instead of shaking hands.

Under the trees the shadows move
like the moon through the cycles of the hours;
a busker rehearses, his fingers busy
then his throat
opening
accepting the half-thoughts of elm seed
that breeze the long moist exhale
of everyone out.