From "A Narrow Back Street"

All the Sundays in your Glass

​In a blood red dusk
In your glass,
The sky, after awhile
Pours out the day of fire
Descends her plum margarita
Cloud mixer
Lowering night
Long remembered
So sweet of tended first
Averted eyes, then gaze
That ruffled edge of crimson
Just past the garden, walls of it
Drink in June’s beauty
And opal darkness
Glinting off the roof slate,
Next door the workers call
For it to spill down and out
Into my waiting
Open mouth distant ringing,
And I hear a steady great lost
“I’ll have another please,”
Look and don’t leave, not yet,
Remnants trail
A flutter of Sundays
As they go.