Here on Tonawanda Street, the drunk mechanic’s wife is launching rafts of pansies. In other yards, tulips’ scarlet and gold, azalea’s coral bursts, columbine,
Once there was an undirected graph an arbiter between earth and sky a happy conflict between the line and none, the back and forth
The window enters Amanda through her eyes, the same window that changes the leaves each day, where finches flit like thoughts tousling her hair,