Sparse crowds shadowed wet streets,
In an asphyxiation of color.
There was a scent of anise and eucalyptus.
Crows were full of trees.
It was a distant hiss of mistral.
It was a death-rattle of dishes from the Felix,
And blue and white flowers like stars
Littered the corner of West Broadway and Grand.
Rain whispered a cadence and cascade
In theia mania for no one.
Along the city’s stone canyon,
Our silhouettes became Motherwell umbras
From a senescence of nights we had left years ago.
In red pennons,
A few remaining maples
Defended against October’s last siege
All the way to the East village.
At West Broadway and Grand,
It was an asphyxiation of color,
And crows were full of trees.