Of course birds, those present songs. Bells hung in the neighbor’s yard. Here, cut grass under foot, gasoline aftertaste mixed with sweat. Squirrels gather fallen fruit from under the raspberry bush while the day lilies watch a plane bawl away overhead. In between these layers must exist finer folds and pockets my circus senses cannot detect. My clumsy ears hear only hammer on wood, but not into the hammer, into the wood. My fingers are too thick to caress the texture of light. My eyes too feeble to focus on the film of life that must thrive inside light bending color into a civilization of yellow, a destination all its own. One that hums the industry of summer and invites me to visit the next strange place I might like to live.
This poem was first published in SHARKPACK Poetry Annual (in a slightly different form) in their Cities, Sites issue. (Includes audio.) Top photo cc Hector Lazo on Flickr.