Black-lemon orbs floating on the canvas,
clouds suggesting nothing,
the way this man on the corner
returns a cigarette to his lips
before entering the diner,
and a bus speeds past in billowing smoke.
Or maybe the stars are translations.
Lines caper and fall: blue
stethoscope tubing, moon within a moon.
Valley, steeple, houses:
here even trees and shrubs are sky.
A cypress rises in the fore,
its black-fire branches stoked by wind.
Fog fuses to the surrounding hills.
Everyone’s asleep, or in bed cradling unlit lamps.
Above terra cotta roofs, waves crash: sea foam
swept against subterranean verdure.
In the morning, such scenes alter:
sun spreads across the horizon
as if by turning a rain-worn page:
flowers and bees, animals graze on wheat.
A boy with a sack of letters races across a field,
his shoes worn thin, cheeks
flushed—delivering the news.