cv.

the leaves, wet to the asphalt
are shards
of the broken lens--scattered
wreckage, remains of a broken
city, sweeping lightly
in the shadows, under the tree,

the green and glowing, dappled
grass, wind hanging and
whisking across the water, under
the branches, the hum

of the fountain, the sky clear and
bright, shored against the
peaks, who hold the wind until
it slides under them, the

end of it, caught in the water, then
rippled, breaks--the apocalypse
came to ground where the freeway
hums, and the stars pricked

the inky night, and burnt out in the
sun rising over the dry hills,
and fell caught in the buildings, in the
branches hung over the water--in
the grass, green and glowing,

the wreckage and ruin, whisking along
the root and weeds, flowering,
sharp and sweet--the world ended, and
the leaves whisked past it,
and the day turned, and grew, went
spun, grew spinning, past it