A pair of roof prism
binoculars to spy on
the ivy-covered brick
across the alley, a scoop 

back black 

dress she might buy for one
night of swooning
over the Pacific, she’s not looking
to rekindle 

any illusions 

that sparks did fly
high above the liars pit,
not mailing that letter
with too many 

stamps to start a bonfire 

on the site
where a round building 

came down. (Was it
because of the architect, 

Sandy?) She’s just adjusting
the tiny barrels 

to get a closer look
at the way those leaves press 

against a wall.