POSTING FOR SEPTEMBER 11: 
                          

WAVING, SEPTEMBER 13th, 2001


To write about the newest war, I put

My feet up – they ache

From carting a child

And our provisions

Across town to a playground

To slide

And swing

And push sand into peaks.

 

Clean diaper, well-fed and rested,

The world

An unwritten book,

Her happiness breaks in

Like a burglar bearing gifts:

Fallen leaves, flower, bottle caps.

Then she’s shouting

To a bird

“hello!!  "hello!!!”

 

Hands waving like…..

 

The bird flies off – black wings

Slashed with red feathers –

And I tell her (what can I tell her?)

That’s what birds do, sweetie,

They fly like planes. 

See that plane?  That’s a plane.

 

Sweetie, let’s count

These grains of sand.


© Dan O. 2001





STARING INTO SPACE

 

The small moon rises slowly like a dilemma

I was too stupid to recognize at first.

 

The horizon of darkening trees

undulates like the waves of a body in desire.

 

The night sky, here, outside the city’s noisy halo

needs a new metaphor of light

 

or one borrowed from ancient times:

playground, guide, god’s inverse sieve,

 

surprise map that only the Chinese spotted.

I’ve come to my friend’s rural spread

 

to try to figure a few things out

among cow paths and cricketed grass

 

and the true light of real darkness

but staring into brilliant space, I get

 

even more confused and

I can only stay 'til Tuesday.


Dan O., copyright 2001 (from A Third Set of Teeth); appears in Better Than Starbucks, May 2018. 

      


 

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