slightly oblique inverted potting vessels
full of luminescent onions.
half the bulbs have grown out of their
habitats sprouting at night over roof
tops on saint james avenue.
the other half hang down along
telepone wires across the street.
celestrially conspicious reflecting in dull
orange hews on the pavement.
me and saint james stand there
looking up to count them.
rows and rows of electric globes.
under orions nocturnal orchard they
flicker in the light of their own myths.
i to am a dreamer this night.
i to move with the spheres first
in the garden now under the lamps.