Sirens

Tonight they seem to be calling

from afar, conversing

like chained dogs carrying on an argument

from blocks away;

open windows still gasping from the night before,

and yet a fire truck screams more flame,

while the warning of an ambulance ricochets

across the carats of dark panes.

A network of stained crazing

like the backside of the moon

spreads beneath tea leaves, through a china cup

in which the future is contained,

but would the Black Maria be allowed

if its soprano struck the perfect pitch of glass,

if its aria were graphed

by a crack traveling the luminous city

reflected along the cliffs of the Gold Coast?

As dreamers know, it’s possible

to rush in silence toward disaster

the way one rushes toward desire.