“We” have satellites
that can see inside my underwear drawer,
technology to witness
new galaxies being born,
and devices to record every waking thought,
but I cannot seem to find
my place and I do not think
I will be able to get away.
Winter blue swirls through branches,
empty but not brittle.
Wind makes a mark like a love bite on bark;
I tighten my scarf
watching steamy breath spread
across the windowpane,
like inkblots like dragons like icicles
almost ready to give way to hyacinth.
Buses are favorite uncles,
out of date tweed, torn pocket protectors,
faint smell of disinfectant.
Trains are not real.
Subways are born to be porn stars,
yellow moans, pressed flesh,
bad stories that shouldn’t see light of day.
Airplanes are whimsical curses to God.
My feet are medieval,
errant, lost to fairies,
turning at a glimpse of enlightenment.
Let’s take the car.
The moon was a heavy drop of milk
in a creamy dark sky
and I sparkled, breaking free
of my cube, gloriously,
in a riot of color.
Of course, it was dark
so the moon made everything
glow like silver -or dead skin.
–
But oh, how the dance unfolded
beneath my feet! And my heart was full
of night, as night should always be:
forgiving, warm, dark, and open.
