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Grey Sparrow Journal

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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The Sun I Can’t See

            making a bit of pink

                        James Schuyler

 

 

Colors spilled, as many as a crayon

box, all 72, blossoming bucolic:

trees, shrubs, tulips.  Even

a baby is pink with sunlight.   

           

            But wait, maybe

that’s somewhere

else or maybe

never was.  This city rolls heavy,

raucously remaking,

revising; shoving grass into park

squares so leashed dogs can proudly

defecate.  Broken

whiskey bottle bits peek

& wink a trail beside

rubbery foliage. 

           

            This May

was colder than any

spring I can remember.  Storms

battered weak trees.  Stumps

& branches are piled along the curb

like atavistic heaps.

Sidewalks scramble with crowds

flowing in choppy thought

eddies to anywhere;

but here.


            Take a break.

In comes May sky

exhaling pink and peach.

Press one button for spring

to lift its express elevator

to the penthouse floor

and there, a woman glows, almost pink.

Absolute, we’re shimmering in waves.

 

—Aileen Bassis