“A 16 line poem with 4 line stanzas, unrhymed in the style of John Ashbury's early work”

This morning dissolves into suggestion, a thin parade  
of gestures scattered on white stone, while somewhere—  
a bicycle turns the corner and, for a moment,  
leaves its shape in the narrow band of sunlight.

None of us remembers the question the street  
asked, only the slow accrual of color at noon,  
where the grocer unpacks plum after plum,  
and voices hover, dissonant, between awnings.

Inside, the clock ticks with a lopsided patience,  
fragments of music caught in a chipped cup,  
someone shifting papers in the pale room—  
a sudden gust lifting the worn lace curtain.

Outside, clouds convene above blinking windows,  
each pane duplicating the slow drift of silence,  
as somewhere, a shadow slips past the flower cart—  
the day, half-formed, folding into itself.

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