“A 12 line poem with four four line stanzas, unrhymed, in the style of John Ashbury's works in The Double Dream of Spring”

In the hush of late afternoon, a magazine rests  
half-opened, thin pages fluttering beneath the fan.  
Voices from the alley collect like soft pebbles  
in the mind’s shallow pool, colored by distant sirens.

The afternoon makes excuses for itself,  
gently recedes behind a curtain of minor errands.  
Somewhere a lemon grows old in the refrigerator—  
yellow surrender muted by the hum of daily machines.

The window’s warped glass distorts an ordinary sky,  
dissolving blue into the chatter of nowhere birds.  
There is a tenderness in forgetting,  
as each cup on the shelf glimmers for another casual use.

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