Through Any Fissure

Sanctuary in the open, silent
ripple of sails in that flower
the morning glory: tissue-thin
wind-reversed white parasol,

flesh of which ebbs with air beside
the blue dumpster hard against
the concrete base below
the wooden telephone pole.

Only the wind extending
its language, the bloom’s cloud-thrums oscillate in
a cranny made by pole and dumpster
like a fretting bird in nest,

or some stray balloon, eddy-caught
in a corner in an alley,
or one pale shaking child
weeping pleading on knees

to a ghetto wall to leave.