A shadow slips in and out of the pavement cracks.
A shivery lick of flame leaps over the sandbags
and runs laughing toward the dry underbrush.
The wind picks up. The trees cry for help
but I’m busy looking at my phone,
watching stand-up comics jump
back and forth over a hole in the ground.
Seven men and one woman
in white hard hats and yellow vests
march single file
along a maze of salt. Quicklime. Hoarfrost. Chalk.
Two lovers lag behind. They unstrap
each another’s equipment
And tug each other down
into the shaggy arms of the ditch
that cuts through the patches of ragweed.
A cloud of pollen and glitter rises up.
They serenade one another in static.
The search light scrapes the sky all afternoon.
The sentries switch it off after dusk.
The lovers stand up, brushing the grasshoppers
and drone propellers from their khakis.
Signal Blossoms
Transmitters trapped in glaciers. Fires paralyzed.
Pull the laces tight. What’s that burst of light?
A spiral flare, a firefly cupped in your palm?
Squeeze your fist. The comedians cackle.
One of them suddenly gets a nosebleed
but keeps on laughing.
Sweat, rain, gall, vitriol
Giant sheets of glass flatten the grasses.
Clear as a pond, empty as a net,
all the world’s reflections
get snatched by children desperate
to see something, anything other
than what we have already shown them.
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