The Wet Weave of Asphalt

When rain caresses the weary bitumen,
it is not merely a shifting hue,
nor shine reflecting the lamp’s lean dimension,
without warmth or gentle dew.
It is the weave that reveals itself, an alphabet
of rough grain, ancient scars,
where black turns deep, more quiet, deeply set,
and the plain rises to new, silent laws.

A scent then rises up, earthy and dense,
a warm breath from porous stone,
that is neither mud nor smoke, but a consensus
secret of the soil to every seed that’s sown.
It is the liquid memory of every stride,
every tire track that has scraped by, every lament
transformed into effluvium, where deep inside
it rises up to meet the wind’s intent.

Under its darkened mantle, every sound
finds a deeper echo, a quieter hold.
The city’s murmur, a distant sound,
in dripping drops, a secret told.
And the headlights, dazzling flashes of the world,
become reflected stars, no longer burning bright,
upon the dark epidermis, from deep unfurled
emerge moments slow and full of light.