James Meetze
You are an arc of light in sycamore(美国梧桐) leaves,
churned-up dust, the sun's disturbance,
beside workers and workday traffic.
Bronze light in every space we inhabit.
This big sky we are under,
a portal without law.
Even poetry can't sample it.
It goes round rosy, always in motion,
like weather's coliseum(竞技场) lights.
*
One cloud changes the whole feel/field of things.
Afternoon indoor fluorescence(荧光) , that silky envelope,
just a corner of blue window to see.
Pillars of smoke in our toxic and inefficient world,
smaller than it seems to be.
Outside, sounds approach like a shudder
without fantasy, a signal that we must go on
in fuzzy cubicles(小卧室，小隔间) , a fraction of private space.
Light's decoy registers, safe in anybody's arms.
*
The brightness doesn't end here.
The filters don't stop it from coming through.
Particles invisible. Blue or gray day.
It is the way shrinking/rising things
can't be made dire enough.
I like your smile, I'd like to see it live on forever.
A line of cars and cars from here to vanishing-point's brown.
We cannot say sun, or sunlight, terminus,
stop where you see a sign.
