For Roy Fisher
The ravens cry up
Split into pairs
Scrape no concrete
Off their catapult.
The sun's like a cat
Riding my back
As each nostril fills with
Breath from the poles.
The tar lines are fresh
In the road
Like abstract charcoals
Quicksilver their pitch
As they race with the sun
That cannot keep up
With my boots.
Pale acacia
Leaf half-moons
Curvaceous and dead
In curb piles.
The palms are all blackened
By late afternoon
Their silver hangs down
Long threads
That waver as if it's still
Summer somewhere
In the blue air.
Limp and living acacia leaves
Glimmer with yellow
The hydrant is dripping
In full sun.
The trees spiral up
Half in shade, half in sunlight
Their greens call forward to white
Or fall toward black.
The grey bark flakes
Peeling to milkybrown
New skin, new tan spikes
On the succulents.
A potpourri of tiny
Hovering leaves
Swerve like a river into circles
To the pebbles.
