- so we could chase it away. Oblivious, wobbly
from laughing, we dance down slower revolutions,
like the scissor-grinder, who rides his bike
in one place, sharpening, humming. Silver street,
flat street, it must have been one or the other, or both
at different times. Silver like rain on the street,
flat like rain. On rainy nights flower vendors
come up in the stairwells with sugary freesia, mimosa.
Bouquets that glisten like names that have unloosened
their sense of obligation, those never tokens
by which you sense how much just is not given,
or not given again. And these remain
in flux, dissolving into wishes, wishes
crystallizing into gifts. Like this
silver like rain on the street, flat like rain.
We are saddened
by
the death
of
Peter Shaw
1936·1995
