We plan in partial sleep
a day of intense activity—
to arrive at a final bargain

with the deaf grocer,
to somehow halt a train;
we plan our love’s rejuvenation

one last time. And then
she dreams another life
altogether. I’ve gone away.

The petals of a red bud
caught in a wind between
Hannibal and Carthage,

the day has disappeared.
Like a little soap bubble
the moon glides around

our bed. We are two negroes
lugubriously sprawled
on a parched boardwalk.