The city turns my eyes blue, with its half sky
poking out through and between buildings, grey rimmed
and dusty top-heavy hues of steel and concrete
towers, subways run on cue, taxis
squished like bugs beneath shoes, scraped off, lost
to new construction, metro buses,
to sidewalks and the sewers.
My eyes do not turn morose
or lonely, not the shading
of sadness, but of water
rolling and foamed white capped, dipped
in the distant ocean, beach
of their memories, dawn tide
I mimic in the bath, run
scalding water and make waves.
They call the city jungle,
but never rainforest, trees
that line streets in exile
impersonate lions, spoof
the great evolved monkeys swung
from branch to branch, nit picking
and gawking, always the eyes
set deep, their long arms swinging.
My eyes are a just forest,
the last call of the gecko
whose back parodies the tint
of sooted bark, tries to hide
his sadness, his thick coughing.
In the woods he would be green,
and at work flecked with gold,
at night alone in darkness.
There is rain in the city today, soft drops
that fall in vain lifted up from the ocean
and carried along trade-winds blown in by our longing
to come here, tame the roaring jungle
whose fierceness is just by name
and reputation, blame upon blame,
a game invented to scare.
The sidewalks are wet, puddles
of sky that form in the streets,
high heels and children’s feet
splashed with polar intentions,
clouds are weeping, though not sad,
nor morose, nor lonely, just
overwhelmed, ripe, full, and when
the moment, the emotion
passes, when the winds blow by
and take with them what remains
of the remote sea. The tall
and thoughtless towers (unmoved
by the storm, oblivious
to the wet sidewalk, watered
trees, the frolicking children)
dry quickly, get back to work
that was not interrupted.
They can see my eyes up here,
stories above the thick fog
of upward mobility.
The could see my eyes, but won’t
crack the window, smell rain,
breath in the refreshed city.