Birds drip from the trees.
The moon’s a little goat
over there on the hills;
dawn, as blue as her milk
fills the sky’s tin pail.

The air’s so cold a gas station
glitters in an ice cube.
The freeway hums like a pipe
when the water’s on.
Streetlights turn off their dew.

The sun climbs down from a roof,
stops by a house and strikes
its long match on a wall,
takes out a ring of brass keys
and opens every door.

1979

 = Sarah Kobrinsky