The blue garage can be itself again.
The cars have gone
down roads no live things dare
to run. Machines alone
are working in the mountain
all of glass, in the wasted bloom
of day.
No weather enters there.
But on the square below,
it’s Sunday morning; no one’s sitting
by the fountain
now except an empty blue garage,
except a mockingbird flitting
from garage to fountain
fountain to garage:
except a mockingbird, deep and long
drinking or filling a Room
in August in the sun with bits
of echo and of mockingbird song.
—Ed Harbin
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