"And your spoil shall be gathered like the gathering
of the caterpillar: as the running to and fro of locusts shall he
run upon them." —Isaiah 33:4
resists the weight of anonymity.
Embedded beneath sidewalk-glass,
sanded by frenetic years
of feet, its face peers up
like a drowned man submerged
in ice. A jewelry store window
mirrors thawing sun.
A glass façade flashes
copper. I eat a yellow apple, dissolve
into glare. Wreathing the clocks' face,
the slogan of a long-defunct
Buy on time.
Be on time.
The clock's enameled hands turn
into the scrolled I's
of illuminated Bibles. Harp in hand, Isaiah
sings the chirps & trills
of desert locusts. Now
the clock hands saw with cello bows—
even as the clock slows
or stops, and time lets me, I
imagine, catch up.
The Greek & Roman Galleries,
The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York
worn away, stretches toward the ceiling
like a tree on the edge
of a cliff. A ragged cloth swags across
his pectorals—fullness & phallus
exposed. His body is an abandoned palace
unable to forget the striving of a clasped
hand, the hamartia
that bothers life into art,
seed into tree,
petals, hulls, leaves:
His bronze hand unfists my gape
from the precipice
of doing …
Back to Poetry