Bristlecone
bristlecone pines,
they straddle two dimensions
- mountain wind
opening the stone,
a sapling sprung forth
a red wheelbarrow
leans against the fence,
its tyre deflating
how many tassels has
a cardinal's galero?
la bella luna
shares a doorway
with the mourning dove
planting daisies
how pale my hands!
disturbed
beneath the wrack and mire,
turtles all the way down
only Poseidon’s trident
was found washed ashore
so auspicious!
her three-faced Buddha
recovered from the storm
in the eyes of a stranger
an old lover's gaze
at first I laugh
and then I cry
watching the city lights
from the executive suite -
tents in Zucotti
pigeons and pinstripes
scatting across
the canvas squares
does it shine, also
on the Sea of Tranquility?
a psychic sign
in the palm reader's window
only half-lit
the station agent
fresh out of tickets to sell
high up above
an Escher-like
grid of powerlines
a radio voice
talks about the blue jay sky
crackle, crackle . . .
the hen's fresh eggs sizzle
away the day
the scent of cilantro
from my old umbrella
inside the volume
of Van Gogh's letters,
one pressed flower
we promise to meet again
for the next meteor display
p.a., willie, sandra, tzetzka, pat, sandra, willie, tzetzka, p.a., pat, tzetzka, pat, barbara, sandra, pat, willie, ashley, pat, barbara, tzetzka, sandra, tzetzka
First published in A Hundred Gourds 2:3
