“A Light Read”
Shaking fingers at you invisibly,
shaking one at myself mirrored.
Yesterday half hanging body
curling, kissing the rooftop fence
Down down deep down the taxis
swirling, not colliding yet,
Big plastic Dice twisted
reflected in the windshield,
Last Monday bathing lavender bubbles
soaking my skin. Hours Hours in the hours
sleeping, dreaming of purple Nightmares,
turning brain off, on, off, on.
Accepting static sounds.
I heard the brain continues to hear for minutes after.
Tomorrow corner of 86th and Madison
a traveler crosses.
No patience for the electronic go,
Body struck and flying in dark-hell pants
and worn-rotted loafers.
One loafer hits opposite side of sidewalk.
Weeks later many signs:
Did you see the car that killed our mother?
(And didn’t kill me.)