If only I could capture the scent of humidity
in the aperture of a disposable camera—
to hold all of Fleming St. under hydroquinone
in a darkroom, each fading porchlight
phosphorescing in a sinking procession
of Kodak Moments.
The moon, its careless murk,
and every stranger in a denim jacket are
transmutations of the patron saint
of streetlamps in white sheets.
In the parking lot two men stand
how two men would stand
if one man was selling communion
to the other one, like Him crowned in
palm shade and husk of rhododendron,
and a rooster crowing.
Far be it from me to step between a man
and his vices. Lord knows I invite in
the bougainvillea that makes a home
of rain-wet hair, keeps ledgers of silt deposits,
I build close the walls of the reservoir
against the brashness of a key
turning in its lock toward a kiss,
strange and alluvial.