The sidewalk collects a pretty girl

April or May, and sun through leaves. Sometimes

being still is not being dead or being

asleep, but sustained.

The half full cup

of the stagnant pond. The boy

plagues the window, watching

the girl.

Lying quiet and still on the sidewalk

face upward and closed, and her

palms settled on pocked concrete,

Waiting for her

He tells me

―[ ]to move or to move something

just by being there like that.‖

He tells me.

The moment is going nowhere.

I object to something in the background motion

of the house, and then,

want for sudden rain.