Philosophy aside, we may sweep and curl
like the warm wind entering the streetcar
through every window and door left ajar.
And while the longish red trolly glides and
bobs west what touches it touches me touches
you touches the parted window its steel case
and its glass indiscriminately.
Mixed in yonder field by tiny, pale butterfly wings,
that wind mixes now with us, if not our myriad views
formed and carried sometimes through Siberian souls,
and sometimes through stretched moments like this:
when your voice halts, then starts deep with conviction
to travel in time with the streetcar’s jerky locomotion.
It suggests we can ring out like trolly bells;
We can be one mind, myriad events out to shape it;
We can be love groomed and made fluid in souls; Or
we can be love twisty and guttered like youth over time;
Ah time which turns the prettiest pearliest lover out and
corrupts the very thing that bore it into the present; but
we can leave more than a yellow-stained brittle lump
we can be in a moment formless . . . open . . . .