Your face poised in the grace of bliss breathes
music through a windy street, scraps of old
leaves scratch the concrete, skidding
past your feet, air in your pants puffing
them wide while you walk toward a man
sleeping under a parking meter who is
when you reach him just a bag of trash.
Relieved, you breathe more freely,
and scattered stars of broken glass
flash like flakes of fire in
the black sea sky of the street
where skreeing hwonking tides
of cars roll by and faces
float along the sidewalk.
A cold burning dry ice shriek of
police sirens careens through the mazes
of shadows in the canyons between
buildings that gouge the sky
and hide the glow of our star
from scanty little trees like
withering arteries beneath them.
And he’s a tree, that man
with the horn on the corner,
bending in the breeze
as he breathes his slow soliloquy
through the gaps in the jagged geometry:
See? We all fall like leaves!
It’s not just me.
Would your heart burst if you didn’t
think your way out of this openness?
Birds barely bending their wings
let water-thick winds
lift them until they find
the next big wave to ride,
or don’t, and fly away.
You worry in a frayed tie and rusty collar.
You hurry in a daze of Promethean wine.
Too often you forget you are breathing.
The sky is an eye always open over the commotion blinking below,
and your thoughts are a hum behind your eyes.
Every one here is equally present.
The air is thick with souls.
.
