meditations in an airport parking lot
I.
The reactive dance of
The landscape
Instigated by the wind—
I am its constant audience.
II.
Upon the blades of grass,
Trash,
Alternative ballerinas
Pirouette with the dirt.
III.
Do you know the sound that is produced
By wetting your finger
And moving it in a circular motion
Around the rim of a glass?
If I turn the music on my stereo down
Real low,
That is the sound here—
The language between cars and road.
IV.
In a car parked next to mine,
A woman
Rummages through her purse
In the backseat.
I turn away,
Out of politeness.
V.
The other day
I had a dream
Where a friend of mine and I
Were walking in a garden
Full of walls
Of flowers.
VI.
How many secrets does the wind know?
A hush falling over everything,
So gentle as if to make one bow.
VII.
In your descent
Did you feel the city wrap you in its hot, sticky arms?
Like a child born from an oven?
VIII.
Today the child is bathed,
Wet, wrapped in a bath towel.
She numbers the spots of condensation
On her bathroom mirror—
As if they are stars.
