beside the bushes, sleeping blown through
like clothes, bushes blown against the white houses
up the street, how they look rising up here.
Glimmers skirting the lampposts
and rolls of worn curb; a mouse skittering
and gone. I am not even disturbing it.
This, in my hand, is a
Sweeping it through the aisles, there go black and blurred scraps,
the nostril of night, with the light how it is, pressed,
and the clouds pressed up like hands.