fraxinus urbanica

i  

Its a peculiar sort of Autumn 
that hangs so far from orange so close to winter.
The city is lined with fierce ash trees like flowers, 
stark yellow petals against bright cobalt sky;
in September the early turning brown shouted out its coming 
like a herald for a prince, red in the sun amid summer greens 
and drying gutters.  
        The prince now - he's been crowned
all in fronds of gold.  The electric yellow of brown framed leaves 
along the street, their branches twine like tangled wire
and the sun dances in step with the pulse of the leaves, 
and both sing to the sky, reaching 
from above and below to the 
blue blue blue

ii

Below the crown sits Peter
beside me.  Pagan, ecstatic, brown, hair. 
He is sifting through the Times.  The Times.  From the Times he quotes
"Twenty to thirty tons of Columbian a month, smuggled 
in shrimp boats and cored out frozen fruit pulps."
I tug at my coffee, looking up from this page and around - 
and there in step 
	are these high-heeled chicks 
in flashback-slacks, strutting under a Fraxinus and tumbling
down walkways swinging arms and eyes wide round, brushing by windows; 
they flex against the weight of the sun and between feline pauses 
swish thighs side to side 
on down 
the street



josh buermann © 1999