Like risen exclamation points
The young trees stand.
Opposite, the old women on their benches
Sit sated like full stops
Following a long sentence
Heavy with meaning,
And pigeons put a parenthesis
Around a silver, melting
Bit of sky.
Alone, I am Job all to myself,
In the shadow of the wheel;
But often my few brief words
End with a dappled question
That drops
From the astounded pen.