What do I hope to find
When I stare out at my neighbors’ homes?
Their windows glow like lanterns
(blue from the t.v., yellow
From lamps or overhead bulbs).
I don’t want them to see me,
Stirred into reverie
By the way they play house: setting
The table, that woman washing
Dishes and laughing into the phone,
Concentration etched
Onto her brow. Or that boy and collie,
Racing in the front yard,
Basketball hoop like a mounted halo.
Nothing new here,
I know. But still I gaze at life
Behind glass, living
Dioramas, science projects.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009: On the Street….Color Story, Sydney
Garage Sale
If you could eat colored glass receptacles,
Appliances, CD’s, denim, this would be
A feast.
It’s appetizing. In the lawn-scented air
And glut of sunlight, these things look better, almost new.
I reach
For a picture frame and panic: Do I want this?
I want to lay on top of it all, a dragon claiming
Her hoard.
If you could eat colored glass receptacles,
Appliances, CD’s, denim, this would be
A feast.
It’s appetizing. In the lawn-scented air
And glut of sunlight, these things look better, almost new.
I reach
For a picture frame and panic: Do I want this?
I want to lay on top of it all, a dragon claiming
Her hoard.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Saturday, May 5, 2007: On the Street…Sodermalm, Stockholm
I sunk into the beanbag chair, leaning
My weight into its pliable form,
Testing its give. The lava lamp glowed,
Releasing blobs of red inside
The glass torso’s window. Like jellyfish,
Like mercury, like organs, each
Particle was self-contained, stretching
And contracting. In science class
That day, I’d learned the words pseudopod,
Cytoplasm, vacuole.
Amoeba: tiny, flabby one-celled
Organism, spread like a cracked
Egg over the textbook’s slippery pages,
But when I pressed my eye against
The microscope’s porthole, I saw only
My spidery eyelashes.
My weight into its pliable form,
Testing its give. The lava lamp glowed,
Releasing blobs of red inside
The glass torso’s window. Like jellyfish,
Like mercury, like organs, each
Particle was self-contained, stretching
And contracting. In science class
That day, I’d learned the words pseudopod,
Cytoplasm, vacuole.
Amoeba: tiny, flabby one-celled
Organism, spread like a cracked
Egg over the textbook’s slippery pages,
But when I pressed my eye against
The microscope’s porthole, I saw only
My spidery eyelashes.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009: On the Street….Bondi Beach, Sydney
Bond Girl
Slick your shock of locks into a thick, high tail
That’s aerodynamic, water resistant, and don
A belted swimsuit. Another option is to gather
Your curls and let them drip over one eye,
A partial disguise. A satin gown goes best
With your hair let down, preferably backless
Or with slit so that more skin shows than
Is veiled. Will you be a villain, a spy, the lover
Of an enemy, or just that girl who has got it
In her blood: getaway driver, scuba expert,
Tango instructor? Either way, be ready for him,
For him to reveal and name you.
Slick your shock of locks into a thick, high tail
That’s aerodynamic, water resistant, and don
A belted swimsuit. Another option is to gather
Your curls and let them drip over one eye,
A partial disguise. A satin gown goes best
With your hair let down, preferably backless
Or with slit so that more skin shows than
Is veiled. Will you be a villain, a spy, the lover
Of an enemy, or just that girl who has got it
In her blood: getaway driver, scuba expert,
Tango instructor? Either way, be ready for him,
For him to reveal and name you.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Friday, May 1, 2009: On the Street….Sydney Winter, Sydney
The Alley
Between buildings, gathering garbage and weeds,
The alley provides passage, a shortcut that leads
To sunlight, glistening cars, front doors.
The alley’s dim, full of things to ignore:
Dented, wet cardboard, plastic bags
Swollen like demon balloons, scraps and rags
And those that live in it. Dickens would feel at home
In the soot and trash. The smell of what we’ve thrown
Away offends us, but we tolerate
The stink because we’re only on our way,
Passing through. Walk swiftly, and join
the pedestrian public, safe as the faces of coins.
Between buildings, gathering garbage and weeds,
The alley provides passage, a shortcut that leads
To sunlight, glistening cars, front doors.
The alley’s dim, full of things to ignore:
Dented, wet cardboard, plastic bags
Swollen like demon balloons, scraps and rags
And those that live in it. Dickens would feel at home
In the soot and trash. The smell of what we’ve thrown
Away offends us, but we tolerate
The stink because we’re only on our way,
Passing through. Walk swiftly, and join
the pedestrian public, safe as the faces of coins.
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