Red Wheelbarrow Poets
Poem of the Week 10/11/2016
A Stream of Alluring Things That Don’t Really Exist
Something raw and natural whirls
around the bedroom walls,
veined with deep blue, baby blue,
the blue of Naples Bay,
the blue of a jay.
There is no curse
in the fevered dreams of marble and alabaster,
timeless as light that streams though a rainbow.
Austin’s sleek young physique,
leather and wood smoke,
knit together crazy talk about matchups
and fans who smile louder
and play ball with punch.
They were all magically turned on —
drunken jet-lagged dancers in cowboy boots
ready to service every piece of art.
Couples were mirrors of desire,
buttery objects that slid
up and down against each other
into pools on the floor.
Such behavior is a form of surveillance
when just trust us isn’t enough,
and dubious passion,
a totem stained black,
ensures an absence of questions.
Walking such a fine line,
you have to live here to understand
their playground is a giant round bowl of music
open to the sky,
and contenders, hot or cold,
are sparkly, leopard-covered runners
twirling ritual above their heads.
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