All the streets smell of caterpillars and molded leaves
near mulched
under sneakered feet and endless faces
under hooded sweatshirts under clouded Portland sky-
the holy heads of vagrants
the tire squeal of life left behind
the guises of purple window sills
of leaded glass
of parks and the names of travelers
all sleeping under the rain,
the wind of buses, the hum of the noncommittal
driving towards that moment of realization
flashbulb epiphanies under neon,
the trailing commas of requiem
waiting for spring
waiting for river flow, torrents
baptismal fountains in leaf riddled streams
in crushed leaves and fading metaphors
the right arm pains of heaving drinking
one more nicotine stained finger
raising, another inebriated point
nonplussed and riding
the downfall sine wave
that was the evening,
stumble home panting
slipping,
over puddles
over cement cracks,
over decaying leaves
smelling,
of caterpillars.

Addendum:
Thanks for the wish-list purchases, it’s super appreciated.