The Gazebo of Perfection
Well, no – anything built by man
can’t be perfect, though we’ve
come close – and that includes me
in my moments of delusion.
The ancients were aware how it hinges
on rivers, forests and mountains, a fortress
and village thrown in for good measure.
We’re aware of the same, but have elongated
the map and made contemplation poorer –
still we all do the work that has to be done,
sometimes achieving in the execution
a hint of a victory in the final result.
The Emperor on the hill, flocked by hushed
concubines, surveying the royal construction –
and the jet planes flying over the spots
where he once stood, claiming infallibility.
It May Be The Colors
Like It Must Be The Shoes
The industrial street is blue
and another blue boy cannot be found.
A woman carries a yellow umbrella
to every Asian city dueling with freedom.
A man carries pizza in red boxes, delivering
them to my house, your house, our house.