A genius for the margins, like a stray shopping cart rolled up and jutting from a snowbank, or in spring an abandoned yellow umbrella tumbling along the gray railroad lines in a light rain,

The reflection of the reddening sky in the west facing panes, or the first crocuses in the city lot shooting up between beer can and soda can,

The chain-link with the corner pulled up through which the kids trespass into the abandoned grain mill to paintball and graffiti, or like the pedestrian bridge over the expressway garnished with fence on top, 

Late at night the streetlights filling the rainy streets, taking root in the potholes and sewer grates, as our elbows share a window ledge looking out at thunderstorm,

A cricket lives less than the summer months, a star for billions of years, though a monarch butterfly flies south for the winter, and the robins return in spring.