want to step outside but can’t get that far without circling
as people do when lost, in a much varied old growth forest
or in acres of hazelnuts planted symmetrically
like the holes in Chinese checkers
as office towers can only be the same if built simultaneously
as pyramids are always disguising something—refuse heaps, libraries,
evidence of civilizations no one knew about to forget, like parts of the earth
that heal too quickly to scar, a day the holes in the clouds had right angles
and there must have been at least 4 suns for it to move that quickly
2)
my neck is stiff from so much looking up, the sidewalk is sloppier than the street,
no craftsmanship, little attention to what’s thrown where, houses at different levels
to avoid sight lines, people paid to stroll and analyze windows—
what kind of treatments, how many cats, can I see all the way through
flag lots, easements, naming rights sold for street names but
who wants to live on starbucks street or target boulevard
with houses corralled closer together, addresses with decimal points
fences replaced with laser beams carrying and creating data, subtly culling
the herds of squirrels and rats--security genetics, a legally mandated end
of petlessness, new vaccine for isolation, an addiction to prescriptions
3)
when I stir
as if I had slept
all windows and doors removed
all art and documents unframed and unhung
no brand names or ingredients
a sink with four unlabeled faucets
a toilet not made for people
vertical and horizontal renegotiated
decide quickly. others are coming
--
Dan Raphael’s last two books are In the Wordshed (Last Word Press, ’22) and Moving with Every (Flowstone Press, ’20.) More recent poems appear in Umbrella Factory, Concision, Brief Wilderness, Packingtown and Unlikely Stories. Most Wednesdays Dan writes and records a current events poem for The KBOO Evening News.