Across the humid valley
a grey blanket hovers,
nudging the shoals of the bulkhead banks,
brick pedestals, and, bobbing like balloons,
the tethered elm tops, desolate.
The minotaur’s asleep. Downtown,
nothing’s for sale, in every shade of plastic,
dusty already, two sizes: Big or Small.
Remember the day The Gleaner missed?
filled with detergent, stacked its wool
like a geyser frozen in photographs:
but this was real –
you could shape it with your hands,
until the wind and tourists took it down,
dry blocks of white expansion,
nothingness gorgeous and absurd,
littering the sidewalk with its down.
Source: Lane, M. Travis. The All Nighter’s Radio. Guernica, 2010.