--- C H R I S T O P H E R F I E L D E R
and I'm looking west again, bending over countless green miles old September of Sunday morning Michigan, asleep in its crib driving past the electrical powerhouses of Jackson, beneath great, blue, holy eye of Diana leaning against the noon sun in prayer, in love and out from beneath that sun, Ann Arbor, left in the folds of the skirts of girls I cannot avoid as I go breaking my feet on State St. and where on Liberty, rolling in the shadows of the youth that comes at 9:00 p.m., the form of slow traffic with little children's eyes behind car windows, black, broken by the neon light and on down to Main the little Greek restaurant the light-eyed waitress with a name like old summer, Mediterranean night that I have never seen her smile leaving me cold a smile hard to find now in the blue rolls of the pale horizon stretched tight over corn fields, over steeples, over green Spanish tile, faded sitting silent above Kalamazoo Ave. collecting dust from August foregone the sun, the sunset all poor over Kalamazoo Ave. over poor Kalamazoo Ave. and all of life going on 'round me the fly in my cup Motown born on the radio Michigan beneath my nails the pitiless bum, his soles beating the souls of the railroad tracks forever north his soles beating out time depleting the songs of South Bend with love left for the insect on the pavement and the insect behind the wheel eyes fixed on the light dancing from red to green as the girls stop and wait and September opens her womb to the sound of rain on brittle clay.
© crossconnect 1995-1998
published in association with the |
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