In the aftermath, the center of the city
turns into a forbidden sphere.
From the air, thin vapors describe
what once subsisted there.
No one can remember signposts, bouquets,
or where the crosshairs focused.
The sky is a tray of hidden circuits,
tilting as it approaches full capacity.
Somewhere a lever flips and the chrome-
colored marbles begin their trajectory,
passing field after field
of stenciled poppies
then disappearing into funnels
or invisible throats.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- [poem removed by author]
- In the hotel with thin walls and the name of a poet,
- Close Reading
- Soul Spa
- The difficulty
- When we speak through a medium
- Whatever it is
- Uncle Frank warned my father
- What can you hear in this downpour?
- Sketches for a Genealogy