How far does the country—the air off
the hills, the stars, the secretive clouds—
enter into the city at night?
When the factories shut down
and the engines sleep the way some men do,
step by step, trees filter into concrete streets,
and the cold spreads itself like a sheet of air,
climbs onto roof-tops, skulks in porches,
stills the water in the fountains.
Dead leaves, squirrels, rumours, alfalfa,
poplars, eucalyptus trees, adolescent vegetables,
insects, night wind, shadows even, steal in
to cleanse the city, to possess her.
(like a guilty and satisfied lover,
 the country retreats at first light.)