Sphere
Here is the view from on high: the planks of bamboo set,
the mossy bridges strung, the squeak of each rung as they
climb, rooftops melting into clouds as they wheel by…with
shoulders set, and orbit eyes. Here is their view from the rise,
a heap of tinfoil and slate—they stare at the hills as if into each
other’s eyes where the jumping spark hides…This is their
way, in spectrum altitude…a rave of light…a falling ray
on low into the empty streets, the cardboard box of day and
vagrant air, the open plaza with its cones of whirling dust,
the iron benches under hanging branches in a precious slip from this
of shade—this is the jeweled stair they raised…from this
outpost with its burnished distant spires that sprang into
view from the wings like painted screen, a memory play…how they laid the giant blazing strips of sunlight—
almost solid glaze—how they stretched the shadow-spills
and spread their bloom: a looming wedge of laurel trees, a
courtyard arch, a rickety bus-stop hut engulfed by cool gray
folds, the tilted paving stones and mottled earth awash in pools
of sun and shade—this is the living light they made…how
they carved up space and flexed the hills into rolling mounds,
and jacked up the streets and pitched the ground—how they
came back to where they began each time and rounded out
the view as if they’d bent the arc, and smeared the sky with
pink, and drank, and bled the ink…
Guanajuato, MX