Orlando
The air has no holes, it has nothing to
give,
boxed in like a package of months
undelivered
the air is a dead siren fading green
grass from palms
At night the city lives on open walls
and ceilings,
and the air is a curtain for a show of
cars, and characters,
and moving anything for the spirit,
alive and beating
the next punch for the best of lights
and life
By day, the city is gated communities
or additions
when you try to keep out the past, and
yet raise the dead
such a one as this, a luxury to being
free, every flight
dotted with pools, and Piggly Wiggly,
and those lights,
that air, sweet as after a shower, and
putting on appearances.
Comments
Post a Comment