St. Louis

Not always,
but often you’ll find
gardens of shadows
on regretful French streets
a herd of chimneys
in the distance
the smell of a funeral
boiling in the sun.
Again and again this sky
shows me some new emptiness.
My own eyes obscure it.
Looking out the open vestibule,
from Frontenac towers,
Masonry Pillars,
bagpipe plains,
smokestacks of Soulard;
The town is a million splendid views
No one is allowed to see.
The evening will be haunted
by abandoned warehouses
toothless, back-alley grins
amber tiger-lily dances
on the sidewalks
prowlers loud and alone
the empty pubs and pizzerias.
Life passes from stall to stall
flush the blood with the ash
like it was never there
and pray to god
or whomever is there
it will pass by morning.
Take the woman and her babycart
Circling the poorly lit pond,
The fish follow her.
To the south an exchange of smiles.
Take two old men
muttering of miracles,
wheezing in the night.