By James Meetze
You are an arc of light in sycamore leaves,
churned-up dust, the sun’s disturbance,
beside workers and workday traffic.
Bronze light in every space we inhabit.
This big sky we are under,
a portal without law.
Even poetry can’t sample it.
It goes round rosy, always in motion,
like weather’s coliseum lights.
One cloud changes the whole feel/field of things.
Afternoon indoor fluorescence, that silky envelope,
just a corner of blue window to see.
Pillars of smoke in our toxic and inefficient world,
smaller than it seems to be.
Outside, sounds approach like a shudder
without fantasy, a signal that we must go on
in fuzzy cubicles, a fraction of private space.
Light’s decoy registers, safe in anybody’s arms.
The brightness doesn’t end here.
The filters don’t stop it from coming through.
Particles invisible. Blue or gray day.
It is the way shrinking/rising things
can’t be made dire enough.
I like your smile, I’d like to see it live on forever.
A line of cars and cars from here to vanishing-point’s brown.
We cannot say sun, or sunlight, terminus,
stop where you see a sign. Contributor’s Note: JAMES MEETZE will join poet Nate Pritts and the musician/hip-hop artist Little Cake at a Pop-Up Poetry Series reading at 7 p.m. Thursday at BOX Gallery, 667 Main St. He is the author of “I Have Designed This for You” (Editions Assemblage, 2007) and “Dayglo” (Winner of the 2010 Sawtooth Poetry Prize: Ahsahta Press, 2011), in which this poem appears. He is editor, with Simon Pettet, of “Other Flowers: Uncollected Poems” by James Schuyler (FSG, 2010). His third poetry collection, “Phantom Hour,” was published by Ahsahta Press in March. He divides his time between Los Angeles and San Diego, where he teaches creative writing and film studies at Ashford University.