It's true that billboard silhouettes and power
Pylons rebuke dusk's fair and fragile fire,
As those who go on living have to prowl
And watch for someone leaving down each aisle.
While this takes place, a tender moon dips toward
The peach and blood horizon, pale, ignored.
I try to memorize impermanence:
The strange, alarming beauty of the sky,
The white moon's path, the twilight's deep, blue eye.
I want to stay till everything makes sense.
But oily-footed pigeons flap and chase--
A red Camaro, flushing them apart,
Pulls up behind me, waiting for my space:
It glistens, mean and earthly, like a heart.