Monday, January 23, 2017


A crowded but camouflaged
city street, so full
it's gone

with rival
words and melodies

is more
than music
to my ears; it's worse—

it's like someone dropped me off
in a store that sells
only used similes and metaphors,

and I'm sort of a buff,
so I can't help but
start picking them all up

one-by-one, giving them
each a good thump
and turning them upside

down, exhaling my breath
on them, rubbing off
the condensation, then

gazing back with passion
at my neatly
distorted reflection,

and thinking—I know
none of these is perfect
or brand-new,

but they're sure
and they're here

and I'm
here too. . .
and I can't keep from wondering

which vanishing reaches
of otherwise
indescribable light, or

which severe-angled corner
in the close-quartered
jail of human strife

any (any!) any
of these things
might make a decent,

easy to sell
and ready to use
symbol for.