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.