Sarah Merrow
A Place Unmarked
Magic is a place unmarked,
guarded by children
racing roller-skates over cracked sidewalks
pursued by chocolate wolves
with cherry maws, uniformed cops
-- or heedless adults
already up to their hips
in joy.
These are dangerous waters --
holy worlds you’re doomed to dream
because you are human and too timid to stare
long at the bum selling you
the depths of his tan heart.
But enter and sight sharpens,
chatter runs fast backwards
and you see the beach,
a narrow land
alive with wavy water games,
dotted with emerald and gold
cottages without attics.
At the edge of this ocean
there is freedom
bracketed by cliffs
cut with ancient stairs
cobbled without mortar,
vines of red bougainvillea
rising in the heat and sparkle.
Come winter,
the chasm will drip with
prisms, a Japanese painting in azure and ice,
the firs up top
stunted with longing.
