Our sky is no less a special effect.
Someone slashes tomorrow’s tires,
this month’s billboard says You could be next.
Buildings fall, and stars, and dollars.
In the meeting for helping the children,
no one agrees on how to proceed.
Some of us eat re-heated pizza,
some of us miss the grasses we grazed on
as minor shirtless animals. Outside,
someone’s ornamental plum
bursts into bloom like a shredded subpoena.
Two lovers break up on the public stair,
first the plaintive voice, then the voice that says no,
then a silence falling soft as gauze,
soft as a sugar pill dropped in the mind.
David S. MacLean
