Particular Flight

The woman sweeping
the sidewalk with a yellow
broom and dustpan corners
herself then walks away
to buy a small bundle of
Persian cucumbers wrapped
in a purple rubber band—
what facts are simplest for
her. Tilting my head back
in bed, I saw something
today I'd never seen before:
recombinant tufts of maple
leaf, somehow barrel black
against a terrible white sky.
They shifted, bowed, seemed
fit to multiply, wholly to
black out pulchritudinous
sky, but for the sense perhaps
the flat reality of things was
the reality of things. There's
mud all over town. Trees planted
as effigies, radical as empty
raisin boxes. Souls patterned
up from bodies, but the moment
I looked down, I was seated
eyes forward and my hands
were my hands. Some time later
I stopped praying for anyone,
because it couldn't be justified,
was in fact illogical; sadly I also
stopped wishing them well.

Copyright © 2009 John Deming All rights reserved
from Parthenon West Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission