Sunday, February 13, 2011

Living In These Palaces

Frank Andrick and Ann Menebroker, 2010

—T.L. Kryss

Watching the crowds as they emerged from the underground.
Eating an apple in a deserted station when a woman came up
and sat down beside you.

Working the crosswords, pencil poised in deep thought, broken,
when a child ran across the concourse chasing a sparrow.

Learning from the ticketmaster that his sister lives in the same
town in Poland, that the cost of produce in the local outdoors
market remains reasonable to a certain extent.

Boarding the train with a suitcase and bumping into yourself
in a mirror.

Bending down to pick up scattered papers and finding another
hand at your side and the words "can I be of assistance?"

Stretching a dollar out of the pocket and giving it to a man
with a sad story.

Settling in by the window, stretching out, and having another
take a definite liking to the seat to your right.

Knowing that the conversation will be concerned with things
that float by on the surface, and accepting that with a certain
inalienable grace.

Observing the girl as she fades off to sleep and the mountains
roll by just beyond her hair.

Touching her reflection, spreading your fingers over it
and keeping them there.


—D.R. Wagner

The sunlight on dust motes.
A hatch of gnats, suspended
In the coming of the evening,
Made to look like a mysterious
Jewel by the same light that
Pulls hawks to a late circling
Above the river.

All the doors and windows open,
As if Summer were an endless
Affair. In and out they come.

Finding our lives full of people.
The room is full. The room is empty.
We kiss one another, hold our bodies
As outstanding trophies, collections
Garnered from the sweetness
Of moving through window after window,
Door after door, sleeping and waking,
Touching one another, knowing the night
Sky ripe with stars, having songs
About all these things, singing them.

Finding our lives full of people.
Watching one and then the other.
Leaving and returning through room
After room. Losing sight of them, regaining it.
Leaving all but memory.
The memory leaving.

Finding our lives full of people.
Making palaces filled with the wind
Of their constant movement.
Living in these palaces,
Day after day, forever.


—Medusa (with thanks to D.R. Wagner and Tom Kryss for these poems they exchanged in 2010)