The moon at the end of the street
Tonight, the houses spill their steps
as if from toppled shakers,
and at the end of the street,
the moon, white as a block of salt,
scatters its grain.
It spices the darkness in every window,
adds a pinch to the sidewalks,
a pinch to the cars and fire escapes.
Under the flecks and crystals of its beams,
the street lights hum. Trees shake,
sprinkling a season of change to the asphalt.
It glitters like the rising tide.
So other spices spill.
First saffron, then pepper, sage,
and all the relished herbs
blending in the wind
a savor of small measures,
sweeping over the houses
into the earliest traces of morning,
of sunlight slowly filling the sky like water
dissolving both darkness and moon
till what preserves and is preserved
lingers only as a passing aftertaste.