Skirts of long spent ages swishing by

reeds bent at the cavemouth

in a wounding light

my leopard robe and bright graffiti cup

left behind at the last milk crate alley

where I drank my fill of brine

and even the standstill bricks

were wavy with the future

long past the river that circled

a pine blueberry island

long past the porches

of ancient conversation

to one willing point of night.