AFTER THE RAIN

The air is still. Smoke over rooftops crawling,

the sliver moon, silver sheet metal, clipped,

the air is steeped with bitter ash; rain, squalling

at midnight washed it off the rooves, slope-slipped.

The rain is gone. A few drops pass the awning,

flit like quicksilver, on the streetlamp crash,

which, blindly, down the avenue is yawning,

enveloped in its dreams of light, bright, brash.

All sleeping… through the limpid air, light, pallid

tatters across the roof-crests, damp, up high,

whose lines, convergent drawn, perspective-valid,

carve up the darkness’ softly muffled sigh…