... (xxvii).

the tide of pink

and burning yellow

rolling down the slopes

--did you see it?

the windows glowing

along the crest

of the canyon

--the lights winking

like eyes opening

blinking away

the light--in the clear hour

before the shadows come

or did you sit--in the gnarled

shade of the oaks, the banked

shadow--of the eucalyptus

crack one astringent leaf

between your fingers?

--saw the echos of the day's end

glancing off the papery trunks

flickering at the edge of the branches

in the deeper darkness welling up

from the bunched roots?

why don't we walk

where the sidewalk

turns to shadow, why do

I follow the pavement rising

and falling above the buildings

alone--while you sit in crowded

silence--watching the light fall

through rigid fingers?