Blue Window
James Meetze

You are an arc of light in sycamore（美国梧桐） leaves,
churned-up dust, the sun's disturbance,
beside workers and workday traffic.

Bronze light in every space we inhabit.

This big sky we are under,
a portal without law.
Even poetry can't sample it.

It goes round rosy, always in motion,
like weather's coliseum（竞技场） lights.

*

One cloud changes the whole feel/field of things.
Afternoon indoor fluorescence（荧光） , that silky envelope,
just a corner of blue window to see.

Pillars of smoke in our toxic and inefficient world,
smaller than it seems to be.

Outside, sounds approach like a shudder
without fantasy, a signal that we must go on
in fuzzy cubicles（小卧室，小隔间） , a fraction of private space.

Light's decoy registers, safe in anybody's arms.

*

The brightness doesn't end here.
The filters don't stop it from coming through.
Particles invisible. Blue or gray day.

It is the way shrinking/rising things
can't be made dire enough.
I like your smile, I'd like to see it live on forever.

A line of cars and cars from here to vanishing-point's brown.

We cannot say sun, or sunlight, terminus,
stop where you see a sign.