Friday, near midnight
Put a penny on the day’s good eye.
Cars parked in the road after dinner
Tick like patient bombs. Each interval
Lengthens toward silence
Like the stems of peonies
Slow their sprint to the May sky.
While we were not looking
One terminal bud becomes
a thousand pennants waving
In tight but unpracticed formation.
Or it is a signal, a coded message
Saying this kingdom will never come
Again. Overhead an unbroken line
of streetlights blinks, then holds
Like an eye chart that wants to help
You but loses sense as you gain focus.