Sun curving lightly,
twist
over the glittering
blisterdome, six
mile-high coffeeshops
direct lightning
to where it cannot be reached,
except through
handshakes. I long
for the days before
the menstrual taboo
replaced the world of smells,
somewhere between sulfur
and the aging limburger
our parents smelled for us.
Taking the same feeling,
and without turning it
upsided down,
what once was brevity
is now gravity.
Industrial smoke is best
rendered
in pastel, or wavy lines
of ink that can morph
into hair,
cartoonishly crude,
pocket surrealism,
trombones from the smokestack.
Colliding peach fuselage,
clouds appearing overnight
framing a rainbow,
colored by gases found
deep in the earth,
unexpected openings
and penetrations.
Long before running
my hands through the dog's
hair,
I know from scent
the oil that will remain
on my fingertips.
Mirrors, converted
from the windows
of retired skyscrapers,
cover thousands of acres
of the earth's surface,
redirecting energy
made negative
through overuse
back into the atmosphere,
help our trash bags
stay fresh,
even on sunny days,
free of unexpected moisture.
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