cast by our streetlight imaginations,
then I am not the silhouette made
by bluebird or song sparrow. I am not
the trace of a wing dusted with snow,
nor the spruce and the yew outlined
at the edge of a meadow.
What shadows speak through me,
shimmer with the heat of asphalt.
What shadows parse from the light
bear stench of sewers, salt-spray,
the perfume of jasmine flowers.
Dull pewter, the blades and makeshift
implements pass across the terrible
whetstone: and come out singing.
– with a line from Lawrence Ferlinghetti
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
