By Nicole Broadhurst
Liberty’s mint of milk verdigris at night.&
What if a bar were a field where love
sprung from a chair, invisibly—- & the
extinct turtles’ backs of locked
long hexagonal honeycombs cathedrals’ clear eyes
streaming the lights of Earth
in kaleidoscopic salt?
We were warned the city may sing when the sun returned
& never again will you say that never again
will that sweetness deliver its pillar, rounded in sighs
birds so shortly sleeping greeting morning at afternoon—-
Lobby of lily-pads
thick-sequined gold hot neon-pink mohair-white!
In that light the shadows are blue. And dawn come to the
terrace of tiny birds throwing the diurnal net
a beak in the hand of familial eyes, smiling
What if love were a bar in the tiger-light of summer evenings year-
round-day-in-day-out 100 years?
Then riders were reality, in no need of wishes.
& Pegasus, Say—-
What if a hotel were all who stepped there
brought to a congress?
An iron-skillet of eggs, a 4-posted bed
a cowboy-bar & disco, out back the radio & the barber shop
thrown into a ballroom, the sleeping bearing down overhead
to pool into the cup.