In the fallen leaves, stars.
The falling stars
and the fecal matter of America’s great cities
smeared and slathered onto vacant lots,
white lines painted over,
automobiles making love.
Your street smells like a hot meal,
a pillow.
All hopes and dreams are here,
but the dream is to stop wanting.
The dream is to be full.
The snap peas in the yard
will go well in my salad.
My anger empties out
because there are mountains in the distance
and I can feel them from your window.