Last night I watched the sidewalk quiver
and spasm as if caressed,
bordered by tufts of neon moss,
chameleon in green finesse.
The trickle in the gutter,
leftovers from a mint fresh rain,
corroded bricks to urban silt,
sloughed to sewers, to mud, to dust.
Trees like plastic Hollywood
were cramped by raised cement.
It seemed as if this camouflage,
these row-house slabs of man,
had failed to cover,
to hide, to dent
the transcendence of crawling weeds,
the evening’s strange foment.