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Artless Blue Benches

I’m rearranging the sidewalk
With my mind,
In the dawn-like spaces
Of magic hour light.
Behind me is a sea,
In front of me a street,
And if I had to dive into one,
I’m not sure which

Would leave me colder.
Hawks are circling

High above me,
Dipping their wings
And soothing their brilliant bellies
In the wavering daylight
Of the second bright day of spring,
Hours decaying
Like empty shells on the sea bed.
Passersby crash like waves
Against the stretching maple shadows.
I’m afraid to tell them
That they won’t ever die.
No one wants to know
That there is nothing to dread.
Ask them and they’ll lie,
And then you’ll know.
I’m beginning to think
That I’m imagining that tree.
That crow would have me believe
I’m crazy.
But I don’t even see it anymore.
I can’t tell what I’m recognizing,
Something familiar
In the shades of green

Against brown walls
And white wisps of atmosphere,
The leftover gold leaves

Under my boots;
Not just a season or a place,
But something akin
To the elusive lost sense of home.


Rax said…
i love how you nonchalantly coat the depth and raw emotion of this piece with such stark vivid imagery. Masterfully done!

my favorite is the ending:
"Not just a season or a place,
But something akin
To the elusive lost sense of home."

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I think, sometimes,
that I can do anything,
but that can change on the way
to the elevator.

I prepare for outside.
Rain makes it easier,
bends my eye to the ground,
to the architecture;
turns everything to gold.
The new gravity holds me,
turns the voices into hums,
the walkers into clouds.

But outside my door,
there are voices already,
breaking through planks of wood
that should mean security,
and I’m in their path;
every word an arrow
tipped with poison.

They’re only voices.
They are not harsh;
they do not threaten.
They’re not aimed at me
at all. Yet I suspect,
hidden from me,
there are faces attached.