Weekly Feature


The cranes right angle
over the city, mean nothing

but change
what we are doing.

This ice, newly built, requires
a way of walking like a person

born a year ago. When I was born,
they sent me home

in a stocking. I was small
and it was winter. I mean,

I was small and too soon.
I've been walking

a little while now, though I don't understand
what kind of machine I am, here

at the corner of Terrace Place,
the pitch and swing

of your voice through the phone,
swift pendulum of here and away,

while, across the street, the cranes
pile buildings into the earth.