On West Oley Street
articulating the shapes
the shapes of two figures in shadow
illuminated
by a glycerin-green porch light
by a polyethylene globe
cloaked in a halo of mist
on a damp summer night
troubled by a fading memory
like a loose brick in the wall
that crumbled to fall
into the curse of love
wild with city verses
with a voice as if nothing that was said
has survived
except me.
