In A Village Near Paris

{An ekphrastic poem for Lyonel Feininger painting In A Village Near Paris }

The sky blushes upon the brick’s silent solitude,

The brush suspends shoes.

The steps thrown in different paths-- not one dares to take another’s place.

Lamps stand against shifting coats,                  they sigh before another nightshift.

Sky spills lemonade into the bulbs’ glass.

Moon waits to drink the pink,  as the Sun retreats to birth tomorrow’s day.

Buildings pry against pavement,--                    forced contortions of a shared body.

The street’s veins swell, pumped by her briskly-flowing blood.

What is the music that never reaches tongues?

The song’s beat,--                                            revealed by the space between footprints.