the wide-set eyes of the bus through the leaves of the trees in July set my heart afloat above the viscera of urban daylight on a misty morning of red brick and hot concrete. call it what you will. naivete. a relic of unsophisticated two- dimensional suburban geometry. (i'll grant you.) the landscapes of cities, of this city, roll through me wavering waving trembling quaking aspen shouldering a burdenless frame of sixty-three inches of glass and peeling paint. resistless dissymmetry. neighbors gray bearded sidewalk chalk and sneakered steps rise with a rusty rail all jointed to touch the sky, palms up, content to face the same traffic light for a hundred years. lovely indifference! (i can't countenance in people what i seek in structure.) open out secret corner turns into the prettiest summer breath. how could it not? amblers, reflected heat shimmer, an elevated pitch all selling a walk as a long string of bright green, even that moment. standing alone at the bus stop. an approaching future. one day, just another day. but this day. this day.
May 7, 2021
