"Among the men is April seen passing
mug after bottle after mug in pants that are black as pianos and an apron that circles her like an equation. The men see that her smile is a warm democracy, that her freckles are a photonegative chart to the stars, that her ears are coliseums, that her collarbones are the low tide, that her hair is an étude..." |
"Meet me tonight on Metaphor Street
past the dead ends of blunt sentences beyond the sordid dark cul-de-sac of peeling plaster and crumbling bricks, in an orchard of fruit and snakes. Meet me tonight on Metaphor Street where the traffic lights are forever yellow—slow down or speed up—and the birds sit, waiting, forever, for you." |