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.