Poetry & Prose

St. Stephen’s Green

Art by Cheech

Foolishly, my eyes turn and rest
a second long on a
round grey bird posing atop a mirrored pond.

She asks what I am thinking, and how can I
say anything but exactly what I see? A brief
vision of holy logic interrupted by a bit of ice.

Tomorrow, she will scour the park
for crumbs and glances, excesses of dirty motion
and take them for granted, while bitter
January wishes and shrieks of light
pierce me and
the too-hard earth.