A cross-breeze between this life
and the imagined one.
I am stuck in an almost life,
in an almost time. If I could say,
but I cannot, and so on. Sunlight
dizzies through the barren trees,
the skyline, a blue fog against
a yellow light, and on the highway
every Westward car blinds me.
Every surface reflects
that quiet understanding: decisions
have been made, irreversible decisions
to upend beauty for something
approximate—the airport hotel,
its Eiffel Tower on the roof,
a playground near the public storage.
Beyond, bridges like monuments
to fracture, and a sign for Pain Law:
not metaphor, but litigation.
Who would not, given acreage
in another’s mind, lie there
for a while to watch the sky be sky?