It was just an intriguing system
of I-beams and metal arches and long,
narrow rungs of steel, a dusty, complex
scaffolding of crisscrossed pipes
and iron rafter upon rafter; linked
towers of empty frames, a skeletal maze
supporting, occasionally, a stretched
bend of corroded lattice, a rusty
round rim filled with wire spokes
that never turned. It was a mountainous
concoction of extension ladders, street
grates and chinning bars, a network
of trusses and bolts and welded
T-joints, a great black cockeyed
grid looming a thousand twisted frames
high and miles deep against a still,
impenetrable background of grey, until . .
high up, the 45th story maybe,
(it takes a spyglass to spot it)
in a coordinate far east of the center,
out from the dark behind a mottled
gooseneck pipe, swims a single yellow dot,
fluttering, gliding past a crooked
saw-edged strut. It’s a shining, weaving,
bud-sized mobility, fins flittering,
rosy gills pumping, each scale
a prickling, a shimmering. Look at it
holding now before a distant corridor
of dented columns, its saucy
double-fantail flipping, flipping
against the current.
Amen
Did you enjoy the the artible “Amen” from Pattiann Rogers on OZOFE.COM? Do you know anyone who could enjoy it as much as you do? If so, don't hesitate to share this post to them and your other beloved ones.
Leave a Reply