To the Tune of a Song Not Yet Written

The sun departs through a throng of clouds
on the horizon– an overexposed photo

of an old explosion. Did it happen in our time?
the cold street wants to know. The street

which is always asking, asking! An amateur’s
snapshot, I tell it. I am always on this street

that happens to be going the way
I am going. It knows only one question

but has the patience to repeat it.
Without that question to what purpose

could a street put itself? I know eventually
the pavement will give way and the question

through the voice of dirt and rocks
and sun-warmth escaping long after dark

will sound like a song without words
or the faded caption on an old photograph

someone took of us looking at the sun
standing still against the pathless sky