To Be
Beheld
by Jerry Harp

They do not look back as they cross the parking lot,
into the grass burning with summer,

and go on walking as the park takes up the sounds
of their voices, wavering

in evening's rising chorus
that precedes human breath.

Apercus of sun and sky
fall to a mockingbird's death

where locusts are strumming the air.
The two women turn and wave.

I languidly raise my hand to them.
One climbs a hill, gesturing, nodding to herself,

while the other sits down in a grove
where chimes and empty flower pots sway

and voices echo among the leaves.
She wears a white tee-shirt and smokes a cigarette.

Fragments of the night play across her hair
and press the firefies near decay.

The other goes on walking with a purple book
under her arm, and turns once more

before she disappears beyond the hill.
A mockingbird on a light post runs through its voices,

and twistings of damp wind rush the dark.
Music has been playing a long time.

I cannot say when it began.