"Among the men is April seen passing
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."