|Image source: drjudywood.com|
It happened. And the man in front of me
exploded straight up off the street, a mile
high. Many things seemed similarly
amplified. A woman cried as all
the contents of her briefcase scattered
over Dey Street. I assume she worked
in Tower One and would have made it in
by 9. And then the transit cruiser parked
on Broadway hit its lights and faded in-
to smoke and mirrors and a sense that mattered
more than any rational surmise.
A shadow stream. Outrageous hip hop sneakers
rocketing. I saw the clearest skies
rain paper as a fire at the farthest reaches
closed a ring on everything that shattered.
Rick Mullin's new poetry collection is Stignatz & the User of Vicenza.