1.
White evening & they move. Among them there are those
who know you, those who will
& those who may, but for the moment keep
to cobble, skew the penchant bucking parade’s
foresworn progression. A makeshift harmony
whistles through their arms, the first tone
of the elbow, the second setting off the weave—
some questions posed for your amusement—
when you stand before the mirror, what animal
do you most often mimic; does your mouth
fog out as you step closer; what image bends
between your lips; does it obey the axis given;
what song comes on the radio.
The hundreds lift their arms & raise one finger.

2.
As one element (you say leaves) here unhooks
from what it followed, rightly so, a kind of grace
lights off from where it waited, or was tethered,
if you must, if you allow
that sail will not name wind, as if
a cloud and arc of rain would slip another pitch toward blue
if your umbrella tapped
a moth, the sun, a slice of headlight, falling leaves.

Is this the voice of posing or regard?
You walk the rows with a throat of reeds. What figure
hears your thin resolve; listen, there are those
who catch that redwing nod without police & bells.