Where trolley wires seam the sky a crow
     parabolas; newsprint flits, folds,
          falls; onward the gust

scuffles a guy’s hair, and his bowtie lifts
     one green-on-copper paisley wing.
          Bougainvillea bracts

whirl on the sidewalk where a styrofoam cup,
     lip to the curb, completes a semi-
          circle like the moon

rising from pearl-whiffs of summer fog.
     While streetlamps on a distant hill,
          weak as tealights, flicker,

palm fronds down this road impersonate
     piano hands, and a rainbow flag
          ripples as if it were

the sea from which the wind on Market blew.
     Hanging in a drag shop window,
          a vaporous purple wig,

billowing over a box fan, brushing the glass,
     slips from one last clothespin’s grip
          and soars into the rafters.