Empty Squares, Streets

Vain intentions bent on
Form a cloud hexagon,
Strangled beneath
A hot sun that melts it,
And can be computed as zero
In the suburbs.

My long pronunciations,
Quiet in the eyes of strangers.
Prophecy to dead ears.
Quick impressions bring
Rushed persuasions.
Sun is blazing, your script—
Sweat-soaked thru your clothes—
Spins in the humid breeze
And in weeds growing up
Thru the pavement
That reach your feet
At floor stare distance.
There was no one in sight
(If sight had meaning
At this intolerable time of day).
I pray for a black sun.

That thick gasoline smell,
That brilliant post work glee,
That erudite political message
Trailing up your throat,
That quantitative painstaking
Measured ascent to victory.
Polite, upbeat door knocks,
To which we find Door Number 3,
As it opens slowly to a shadowed, bent face
Behind a district door, barely cracked.

Political races are endless shut doors:
Foreign voters who count rigid flowers
Outside a disturbed lawn, like money,
Because it is abstract.