Rooftop

On the rooftop, one can be calm
One can know peace
One can know, but just a little,
to release

Is it the gravel-matted tar
carpeting the floor
like grass, or is it the flower
of chrome, spinning,
blooming as the chrome clouds pass?

Or do the artful trees
of long arms and no leaves
that crack along the horizon
like webbings in the glass...
Do they lift me
full of grace, as they please?

The sun is setting, setting
and its light
reflecting off the bands of cloud
is grey.
Happy, unassuming,
quietly moving on its way.

I should stay up her forever,
be content in any weather,
but as the night is reckoning the day,
so I reckon my own burdens
buried underneath my feet

The shadows run fleet-
hooking hands into my sleeves
and pockets, bearing me away.