It matters that this is true:
that pushing the stroller up the hill,
filled with sleeping boy and girl,
I thought about my muscles and
didn’t see the sky like smoke
at four o’clock, the drying trees
like black veins in the gray.

It matters that I thought
about my boots, that they were good,
and didn’t hear the red-eyed cars
rushing like wind, their terrible trumpets,
then the whisper of leaves.

All I saw, all at once,
black letters
stenciled on the pavement like a cut into stone,
the black showing through from a great distance: