At the edge of our knowledge, there’s talk
of exo-planets orbiting far suns.
Cross-hatched shadows of branches bud
in the street lamps’ pavement splashes.
We’ve found a new home ourselves
and while that bride’s white lace furls
across a train seat as they’re toasting
their afternoon marriage, I’m inferring
they’re making a kind of escape
from indifference or disapproval
and hoping they’ll have had the best
of the day’s intermittent weather.
Not so far from where we’ll be,
we slipped past bakers, delivery vans,
and under the eaves of the market
where, as sharp air steamed our breath,
cropped herbs suggested spring
and apples laid out on a stall
offered up their own conclusion
