A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
In the dark of the jeweled cities, below the mirror
buildings, in the wind that funnels up the street canyons
blowing hats off and women’s hair sideways
poets are passing a small flame from one pair
of cupped hands to another.
In the rusting skeletons of elevated tracks,
in the subway among the skittering rats
that little green light way down in the tunnel
is a poem being lit from a candy wrapper.
Below the steam grates down in the gulping
peristalsis of the big pipes, an eye opens
and in the iris’s pulsing anemone, a poem rises,
wends its way through electrobabble and caresses
even the shouts of rage and the porno-voiced
recordings in the stores saying gimme gimme
and buy that thing you can’t even name
but has already got its hand down your pants.
In the airports, hearts light neon
in the walk through scanners
and slither out of the rubber gloved hands
of the terror probers diddling our secrets.
In the steerage of the main cabin the miserable
with their knees crushed against the seat back
nod out until the hand of the flight attendant,
as if out of a cloud, hands them a drink
in which gold whiskey swirl swims the fetal poem.
copyright 2015 Doug Anderson