north Portland,
on a sleepy see-saw evening
at the highway's edge and people
are nothing but destinations,
and the idea of the last person
that meant something.
the horizon is stitched with
steel bridges over water and
overpasses raise around the cold
reconstruction of old buildings.
the street puddles take pictures
of dark clouds across cobalt,
skies behind apartment windows
that are open above to interrupt it.
now it's early spring, beginning
smells of aging tree flowers,
looking like huge hands holding
time bombs, trunks sweatered in moss,
and this city belongs to
anyone who wants it.
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