Not the Song, but After

Now everywhere the pageantry of youth

      is on display:

The squeal of bike chains spinning through the gray

     plays fugue to puddle-froth;

The punctual blitz of hyacinths in April

     ushers spring

with lavender dripped from the upturned wing

     of wind-swept Gabriel.

A youngish pair walks wired at the arms—

     she casually ribbing

him, he lightly brushing her breast, jibbing

     their step to spare the worms

stranded along the road. Too soon, their laughter

     rises and goes

drifting toward silence. And now the young man knows

     love’s not the song, but after—

like the mute, remembered chorus of the rain

     that stains the walk

long after falling, or the lifeless stalk

     still hoisting its head of grain.

Uneasy now, she loosens from his hand.

     Their dark familiars

stare back, reflected by the passing cars,

     with speechless reprimand.

Before the chill, each chartered hell grows hotter,

     yet every burn

will teach him how to run—and how to turn

     her wine back into water.