A cat on a windowsill fills
the glazed eyes of the house with meaning.

Twigs lie in the dust, curved and peeled bare
like the bleached bones of a small animal.

A painted steel fire-escape curves
like the spine of someone turning to look.

Wind ruffles thick ivy,
flashing sunlight in fitful morse.

A tree clings to its dead leaves
with the blind clutch of a sleeper.

The old man in his lawn chair
is content with empty hands.

(Previously published in Contemporary Verse 2 magazine, Summer 2009 issue)