Wednesday, April 13, 2005


It is an unfamiliar
Itch, the grass
Against your forearms

You sneeze and it
Is Spring again—enter
Birds darting

Through their improvised
Grids, testing out still
Denuded limbs, a young girl

Tumbles clumsily
From her undersized
Stroller, Latina

Teenagers crowd the laps
Of their boyfriends on
Park benches as a horse strides

By looking mightily out
Of place, I mean
There is a woman walking around

Here with an eye patch, broken
Glass cascades across
The paths, a cop just stubbed

Her cigarette into the pitcher’s
Mound and if you think
I’m getting away

With a poem here, take
Another look, the wind has
Blown the vendor’s

Napkins against the backstop
Where a chain
Of motley kids winds

Past, their hands clasped
Furiously, feet jumbled and mouths
Open as sometimes

I can’t stop asking
Myself little questions
About the world and other

Times I stare
Into the blotched pink
Of my own palms

And run as fast as I can.

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