Saturday Evening
Come, watch the foaming heavens through my hands,
and learn between my finger-ends the stars,
their looping paths, their trailing through the sands
of fire and phosphorescence. All the cars
which gun their bully-engines in the street,
and drum their loving motors on the palms
of motorists, of teenaged boys whose feet
are hot with rubber pedals – they would calm
your secret fires with thunder and with oil,
and spectacle propelled by crunching gears,
which smell of gasoline and gleam with foil
and dimestore glitter – but none of them hear
the faint and trembling murmur of this sky,
the mute chimes that we’ll breathe here, you and I.
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