Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
print version

Public Art

I hate bees E. said
holding a spoon
and I thought how Zen
to admit it
for without
those mechanical golden
creepers moving
among the crops
with powder
on their wings
we would
be super fucked
they are
said G. refusing
a small ceramic
cup of wine
and therefore good
even that one
stuck in the lamp
will just go to sleep
when you do
we could see
part of her face
frown slightly
then smile remembering
how good it will be
to be awakened
at that hour
only trucks
move in the streets
M. watched it
crawl furiously along
the intricate white
tubing of one
of those new bulbs
we all are addicted
to light he said
and it is just one
of ten thousand
then S. said
do you think its feet
hurt and I was
suddenly aware
of my toe
she is my only
husband and I
her only flower
of many changing
colors that every
morning grows
up through the black
soil of what is not
into the early
light that reflects
at least a little
color off
whichever dress
I help her choose    

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