The day is perfectly just out of focus.
Its blurred overlay almost fails to pause us.
It's not that we get bored here while we're waitingó
we were bored solid before the beginningó
but there are specific displays of power
(like dropping a word from an off-white tower)
that we hope to call abuses of power
in the future, even if from said tower.
Rain bounces back into itself from the road;
a flag moves, but without our feeling the wind.
The wind moves without our seeing it, and what?
At this point it's as if we're wearing frameworks
or scaffolds of balsa, crucifixes all,
unaware of who we've been or where we are.
Our doorways don't look out on one another's.
We have our portraits done in charcoal on tar.
A Public Space Issue 16 - 2012
Issue 16 - 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Graham Foust
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission