In a World of Pop-Up Olympic Stadiums

a knotted load-bearing beam
a cable without
a bridge to dangle over
a cloud cut out of a chainlink fence
a collision scrolls into view

Hokusai’s wave washes over
Munch’s scream beneath
Van Gogh’s starry night

later red spots
will prevent
daydream detritus
from crashing into walls
that will never become doors

an unwelcome draft wakes her
to late morning’s
blind courage

a redemption fable
gets told with a labyrinth
of shipping pallets
so precarious the ending
anxiously eats its own tail

swimming in deep
green juice
everywhere there
are those
step streets

Kingbridge the Bronx
no one says the Bronx
without the THE

stone wool stories
get tucked into the slag
the ancient house weeps in relief
dreams of Spanish moss wilt
in mid-winter’s dry northern air

the draft wins
she moves to a table
on the other side

where subterranean thoughts
follow her left hand’s
shadow too tentatively
across the pale page
some are not worth repeating

despite what the ghost
of Andrés Segovia says
with those nylon strings

some do not deserve
odes or beautiful shades
of gold surrounding their edges

others spin their own

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