The Reigning Sky

There's a tide here too,

in not-so menacing suburbia,

prophylactics in the hedgerows

(at least we keep it safe),

the ebbing and flowing,

fall and rise 

of puddles in the 

creases between the road

and in the convex between the curbs.

Padlocks on an iron gate,

a welcome sign by a wood.

We herd here like you are herded in the cities.

I walk long distances,

you walk fine lines.

Bread lines.

Picket lines.

In a line to purchase a ticket so

you can commute to your line of desks.

Double yellow lines,

no parking.

Red lines, 

late nights and early mornings,

no stopping.

Big city, why,

you are an ocean,

flooding,

and then a drought.

Rainfall, dry days,

dry air. Dry humour.

Turn on your television set,

your stars in your geometric skyline.

I look up;

I stand still, and I look up,

and I can see the contour of our hemisphere,

like I was a pupil with something to learn,

and here I am, learning

on the inside of a transcendent eye

that is blinking and reopening

within every twenty-four hours.

Red or black curtains lining a stage,

drawing open, drawing closed.

Sometimes crying,

sometimes laughing,

sometimes sleeping in a berth of clouds;

a reigning sky, not raining.

Reviews

[Peter Joseph Swanson]

Fantastic!