#76

I had been making T-shirts
for the neighborhood kids
that said the world is doomed
when I decided to take a break,

float in the pool, on my back
with my ears just under water
and the lights from beneath
diamonding themselves on the surface,

reflecting on the ceiling like
some urban northern lights
winking and swaying over
the layer of chlorine and heat,

all of which is a reverse image
of the sensation that I have been
casting a mosquito net across the sky
to pull in all the negative energy

in the world as of late,
small floating pieces of helium
broken glass that I bring down
and fashion into a huge screaming

ornament, blinking and glistening
like the neon Vegas Flamingo sign,
a perched orb of attention, dense
with the patches and pockets of light,

about to burst, too full, too full,
exploding and falling down
over the city like blades of rain
while I submerge my head

and say I knew it was coming
as the pool water turns red.

#84

You've lost the ability to walk,
the noble two-step shuffle across
the thick ice on the lake, the marshlands
in reverse that slide you gently
toward the swans swimming under the surface.

With a stumble and a beat,
you hear the birdsong frozen in air,
making crystal music notes that hang
on the telephone lines and the car exhaust
that breathes along like a wheezing trumpet.

Back to the ground, weighted blades of grass
envelope you like eyelashes, like a wink
on a New Year's Eve, the train station
at six am, saying goodbye, sending off with
an icicle symphony.