All the heat gone

Frayed tarmac in 4pm February sun and

furtive moss clusters be gone

neon tube hiss           

              shrugged off antennae

Now all the oddbod crocus fingers creak

a yellow stepladder floats from his big arm

So bird lime at the edges of the wired glass

            history cakes  
   and blisters and 
                       half hid 

        stains on the waterbed too

No magic vestiges

                      even in felt tip flowers and leaves

                Quiet is an hour or so hung up for afters

before hometime hands say