A citadel on a cross-town street,
cars and their tail lights streak by.
Is this all I can do? A poem so
end-stopped, so concerned with capturing
the last light of an early November sunset.
But there's no way, the orange and pink
on the windows of the turret above Sumner
Avenue, the azure sky: it slips away.
The lights from Asbury hall cast a studious
glow on the lawn. I can see one star
beyond the tower and its cell phone panels.
I must go in. I must stop imagining
croquet games on the green grass.
But how do I break this stasis?
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