Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Building frame on th corner of Washington and Franklin, Boston

It is a crocus day in Boston,
which is to say winter is retreating

Pedestrians tilt their faces to the sky
smiles bright, coats folded into arm-crooks

Spaghetti straps, sandals and beach blankets
wink crispy from behind panes of glass

Among the roused specters of hot weather
there is the sense of a great exhalation

At the epicenter of a busy intersection,
half in shadow sits a deconstruction site

It's felt as a jarringly playful bone chill and
the illusive taste of vintage shadows

Perhaps when all the damaged goods returned
to those buildings could pearl into a small planet
the huge shops are put to rest

Yet there is nothing toxic in the rattle
of a building being remade, not even in
the ropes hanging from odd ceiling joists

Unbound timber rests carefully as a newborns hair
The sky looks like foil fins of a pinwheel
bracketed by the unctuous steel

It is a crocus day in Boston; which means
it's warm enough to rip down old walls, let all
the heavy foot-falls and hand prints escape

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