Two Octets (Shaver Ave & Hawthorne Blvd)

shaver ave octet

the tire’s black circle hulks on parking strip leaves;

a pair of ankle boots dangles from the wire,

steps pigeon-toed through clouds—crushed water bottle

washed up on the storm drain grill—not to mention

the half dozen gray stones at the lawn’s corner,

unknowable pattern, unlike the clover

in ragged grass amongst dropped chestnuts; within

ribs broken once like sticks, unmended heartbeat

◦           ◦            ◦

hawthorne blvd octet

except last night’s rain the galvanized planter

holds nothing; within accreted canvas &

corrugated, the market’s boxed apples about

to spill—this sky’s not promising unless you

count inevitable November drizzle—

but not now: next to the parking lot brown-eyed

susans; a friend from crosstown, unexpected,

waves from the cafe window, averts her eyes

Jack Hayes

© 2016


11/8/16 & 11/9/16