the child
trembles on the walkway
what shiny
thing in the heart surrenders
or
IS
opaque.
Ralph Angel
NOT TO REACH GREAT HEIGHTS,
BUT TO STAY OUT OF GREAT VALLEYS
There's a wind in the leaves of the trees.
It's a river of bone-chips and feathers.
And the visible stars, in their airy
chasms, are fishes. I am kissing fishes .
I'm on my way to your place.
Do you hear my footsteps on the stairs,
and feel my cold lips
on your cheek? I am saying, "hello, friend."
A few neighbors huddle on the corners
with upturned collars and turned out
pockets. The blue smell of metal and
night things - an old gal snoozes with cans,
a bearded boy embraces a telephone pole.
And they're shooting each other, again,
at Los Globos. Splinters of bone
fall from the window like fishscales.
The band of spectators rises ecstatically.
