A man shovels in a parking lot
for a car supposedly there
but the car so loves its burial
he gives up and goes,
engulfed in swan’s down, Florentin swirls,
the ticker tape of heaven.
Wrought iron fences present a knee-high
height to the fallible eye. To sparse trees comes
a minimal spring, precise and oriental:
there blooms here, five there,
birds brown and blood red.
Bricks mimic their mortar, shingles show
as if newly cut. Traffic? What is traffic?
People? There are no people.
The ornate wind, thousand-flaked, leaps from
building to building. Softly, the neighborhood alters
to a mock Siberian scene,
comic and beautiful,
capped with repeated conical hats.
Good people, kept home today
from your various jobs, look out your windows,
grasp this scene that offers
some metaphor for love:
simplicity in a deepening world.