I know the lay of bones in this town

stories of what used to be where

what happened and when

many are just that, tales that are told

but they are flesh and the beating heart

what makes a place alive

one day no one will remember

these particular fables about half-buried things

no matter that and no loss

memories and ashes always dust the streets

in the sky hangs a moon

gauzed by fog and framed by late November trees

art positioned between two houses

just so for maximum effect

nothing but some random street piece

tacked up there without permission

probably unsigned

the feral cat who lives on the block

appreciates it from a fallen tree

the ground underneath rumbles from the weight

of displaced trucks and discarded dreams

I throw a handful of stars over my shoulder

and laugh as I walk away

the air chill and overcast

the ground bleak as the louring sky

then amidst the stippled rain

there catches the slanting light

the sun’s brief gold

shimmering in the drear and gloom

stands one tree high above

that tree shines