On the street at midnight, I hear
a hatbox latch fall open
in an attic closet, and then
the silence of Alexandria.

Even low clouds' dark stucco seems
applied by the drowsiest journeyman.

The fire hydrant stares
from its tricolor at a branch
fallen in the street.

A snail punches antennae up the chain,
a great excursion to the loose
bolt where a little water drips.