In the cellar,

greenglass vessels lean

          against one another,

  their shoulders dustpadded,

       throats sealed tight.

Some wait decades,

stoppered against the tremor of hands

that might one day twist them open.

Others burst early,

foam rushing into the air

as if silence itself were unbearable.

Life, too, is a rack of bottles—

some ...

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The plaza holds its breath.

A wind gathers,

but only enough to lift

the corners of yesterday’s paper.

I walk the edge —

stone to shadow,

shadow to stone —

smiling the smile

I made a couple of hours ago,

still warm in its pocket.

Visitors pose for a photograph

they will put off

for another hour,

or another day.

The fountain repeats itself,

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