It isn't surprising, but unexpected: in summer, how evening
just happens, how we aren't looking for it.
Yesterday, you didn't say anything
all afternoon, but later
armfuls of foxglove in the tub when I drew the curtain.
It's a trolley; it emerges from the tunnel into seven o'clock
and a neighborhood we could never afford
to leave. Look at it: actual gas lamps lit
one at a time, and everyone's windows are open.
It's the beginning of a movie we've seen many times
over, starring the neighbors. One of them
preparing dinner in the eat-in kitchen, fussing
over the stove. The other looking out
at the street, noticing
the way the light falls, the way it falls in
like guests around the table, and then goes.