Tree lined
suburban, shadowed
street signs
stand aloof
in the quiet morning
daylight gloom
of happy homes
opened doors
and kisses. Questions
fall like flower petals
on sidewalks, cracked
by ancient roots
whose planted hands
can only tell
the difference between
early mornings
and daylights answers.
But the sky is new,
and the desert
Golden, only as old
as the moon which hangs
still as the sun
does rise over broken
glass bottles, which dress
Winnetka, asphalt
like a torn evening gown
come morning.