Twenty After Seven: For Kirk

Crickets in the fresh-mown grass and
dozy nocturnal birds calling sleepily
   harmonize
   in perfect cadences all their own
   complementary rhythms
     with
protesting transmissions and squeaky belts
purring perfect engines' fiery hearts
the insistent whining of flourescent lights
interstate eighty singing over the wall
muted heartbeats from warring bass speakers
chattering consumers exiting the mall
   and
     someone's radio through an open window

This busily quiet orchestra
removed by the infinite distance of
   double doors and two hundred feet
   from the Saturday insanity of
   tired impatient shoppers
is overseen by the creeping twilight
   canopy of blues after sunset

Here and there again stars
bright short pinpricks glimmering silently
observers of nothing that see it all
distant suns join a chorus of
   inaudible motion
their graceful imperial waltz cross-sky
   is joined gleefully by these:
     humanity's high-flying children
     jets
     contrails in the stratosphere and
     streaking quicksilver bright
     satellites
     madly high orbits
        presbyopic young-old winking in a
        proudly competitive dance-a-thon
swinging fast and furiously in comparison
observers of everything that see nothing

Everything in this warm freeze of moment is
     (concrete and asphalt
     brick and gravel
     rows and columns of automobiles
     ashes and cracked mortar
     puddles and cigarette filters
     bugs and grass and people
     me)
washed in the dim blue light of reality
     here
        living
             now.

"Could you possibly post that paragraph on LJ?"

Natasha Irons drops a thing on livejournal from Saturday, finally finished today. "I don't know what I want to do. I'm feeling very much not present. Awake, but elsewhere. Disjointed. Somewhat anxious, like there's something I need to remember that keeps /just/ eluding me, and I only occasionally even remember that there's something I'm forgetting. I feel, oddly, like I'm out of context."