Semicolons
       

Samaras, sticky tender things, helicopter
down in the diluted light of seven-fifteen
on Monday night; paint blues the front porch steps;
air cools off like a troubled friend; a car engine
shifts pitch in the distance, on the way to someone who's
not sure she loves him; wind in the branches hisses
like water; you text him and text him, not sure
you ought to; lilacs are dark as half-clenched fists;
starlings complain that no one missed them; a red
hexagon glows at the end of the block; taillights
bleed and can't quite stop; the mountain steeps purple
in sunset's flame and is mirrored in vacant
window frames; blossom's leaving, leaf remains.

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Copyright © 2016 Lesley Wheeler All rights reserved
from Radioland
Barrow Street Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission