The blancoed office building flaps,
covered in swans. The roof is white
with spots of orange, a flash of black
like semaphore. They’re never still.
Arrivals and departures seem
off schedule, bent by maintenance
left unperformed while bombardiers
brought down protest. Why here, why now,
why only on the roof, will be
explained in Union Halls, The Grange,
by Leda in her signet ring,
and CNN. A broken swan
comes tumbling 7 stories down.
Wide wings aflame in late-day sun
evaporate before they hit.
It’s love in dreams. The dying swan
pirouettes. Cobs and cobblers cry
to muted trumpets, shouldering
swansdown aside, startled and stuck,
lorelei high over black streets.
1 comment:
It's a great pleasure to see this poem posted -- I remember when I first read it, 9/12/01 -- it gave great comfort and still does.
No matter when it was written or previously posted, I thought it was generous and brave of you to post it in those days when everything seemed even more absurdly vulnerable than usual -- this poem, so beautiful in its image of something elegant and sunlit, tumbling down.
Generous and brave you are, still.
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