Stalled

far off above redbrick walls
hangs the red in the sky aloft—
there, the prismed sun shot down
by evening,
by night
and the merciful
breeze in succession.
White ligatures of cloud.
Shelves emptied of books
and food and the echoes
of footfalls on wood
fill the open rooms,
call them stanzas.
The united hum
of contented air conditioners
lining every street
hanging from windows
as over a parade
watching not people
but their passage.