In Every Nook

Black umbrellas

hold their skirts down

even when there’s no wind.

Trying to shut the giddy conduit 

between what is said and what is heard,

fact or fiction, news, nostalgia.

Black umbrellas close in upon themselves.

The plaza is empty because it’s winter,

but it doesn’t matter.

In every nook there is passion

for the first time, heart-over-head

with leather, or the buttons on a shirt.

Black umbrellas like fat fence posts

make long shadows for secret meetings.

Things move us without permission 

and language is the worst offender,

unhooking the shut places,

bewildering the hem of things.