Easter Island Statues at a Poetry Reading
Wind blew her dress above her knees.
A man fell asleep in the wind,
Forgot to breathe, and the day started
To feel good, like a 70's documentary.
A jumpy bass line accompanied his walk
Down an afro-lined street.
Theory and magic divided the world in two,
Mumbling, "wind fell asleep in the wind."
As he poked around,
Looking for his second sock, he uncovered
A shoe box of letters under her bed,
Intimate summer improvisations on a harpsichord of weightlessness.
The road next to the cemetery, where she ran, did not
Seem so desolate when she forgot the series
Of assembling feet beneath the Chinese screen.
Merchants of curved space peddled
Cog and chug as if their mellifluous jokes
Were variations on scenes of interior traffic.
A human door hunches in a suburban park listening.
The poet, appareled in futures of sleep, turns
To the returning threshold and apologizes.
The wind falls asleep in the man.
The day settles around her ankles.