Wonderlust

Night spins with us until day slides
it’s orange fingers into the window
and pries the shadows from our eyes.

The siren sounds of a grinder brings
an illusion of awareness to two dark
circles that imagine park benches as trees

and cars as cats along the alleyway,
scrapping and hissing for oil. As she
opens the window, the gray light from

the building melts into those circles
that live inside a pragmatic telescope
of the world suffering from but

agreeable to elves and pixies as the
strains of “Debaser” cross the streams
of pop culture and nostalgia again,

and I wonder why I’m so happy
to dismiss the magic of wood nymphs
for bricks and mortar when I can

catch a gleam in the river’s eye and
hear the laughter in a thunderstorm.
Because a sky beard no longer holds

my hand, does it relegate my sense of
wonder to a 4×6 plot on a hill overlooking
the breath of the city? Or is there a

chance for me yet, in the electricity
of skin, the frown of a tornadic vortex,
a jumble that lands on paper just right.

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