To think these lilies
won’t be here come morning.
From my window,
I watch them
flutter in the cool breeze,
their white throats
glare in full-moon light.
In the corner
of the coffee shop,
a young girl gets up to leave,
closes book,
Neruda I think,
one last quick sip of
coffee, the color of
the long brown hair
I’ve been sipping slowly.
Shooting star
crosses the sky,
n eye film
between two blinks.
Face in a train window,
melody on my tongue,
gone before my memory can name it,
a glimpse of something fawn
in the brush…
like all brevity,
there’s nothing to it
but for me.
Rusty Truck 