* header image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/bzuk/3411627091/

for Philip Larkin

At the skate park, the ramps reiterate
a few pale-shirted figures. Trash cans

teem with wet paper, candy wrappers.
A basketball net hangs,
a punctured sieve.

Early in the morning when the buses run
by the hour, a dampness

covers the grass and pavement. I walk
and walk. It cannot
be stamped out.

I never found that one place that waited,
like a bell untolling. That person whose ardor

had no eyelids. At the bridge, over the railing
I reach out my arm.
It slopes.

When someone enters the dry cleaners,
the bell above the door chimes,

and an old man emerges from the linens.
Brutal how time
serves as our only trellis.

A woman walks to work in a navy skirt
and heels. Her footsteps
chatter like teeth.

In the empty band shell, paint curls
from the seats
of the benches. A motor idles.