with fires put out
for the night,
the residual smoke
hovering the neighborhood
like guilty fog
in a confused season.
from a peregrine point of view,
crowds of men and woman
attired in usual costumes
make me curious
in a Walt Whitman
manner of minding,
fighting the good fight.
I sing a last song
for the lady who is gone,
as the annals
of ample hills are mine,
the stately and rapid river
reminding me
and the horizon.
in keeping kestrel tradition,
I hunt for hipster heroes
and my soul burns of excuse,
while looking for her
amongst the dusk,
where after-work operas
help the smell with sight.