Running winds, streaked sky. Jacket off an old paper novel.
Little boy, papers piled to his chest, shuffles in my driveway
His thoughts still asleep as his wide eyes blink.
I watch the slow dogs, beginner skateboarders, still-legged young girls:
I tie them all together with the papers as they climb
With the bald-headed broken English that runs with the dogs.
The sun grows out of the large park across the street, built
In the 1920s, rebuilt for a school in the í60s.
Illusions, with a kidís book, carry the stillness like a closed espresso
Shoot out the noises when it comes on with the winds,
The clicking of old toads, the stillness then the storms
That shadow the ghosts that play old baseball games
Against the wasps of summer.