Untitled: Anthology

I am the creature that country clichés often mention—
the city animal.

This restless wonderment
at my inability to harness nature in my poetry
is a distant thought now,
overwritten by the black airbrush exhausts—
probably precipitates on a friendly hawkers white smiley mask.

Case scenarios of what could be
are just voices in the wind now—
or the silent rustle of grass—
the rare child caressed by the final gush.

Instead, I wonder what happens if the hawker,
say for example, wipes his mask,

                  and his finger like a philosopher’s stone,

                  reduced to the exotic mediocrity of an ivory touch

                  leaves an ivory trail—the tiny island of truth

                  staining his persona.

The dull splashes of paint in the galleries are my sky—
their depth momentarily mine,
and the sky falling is the stray strand of green
in my concrete jungle.

And you, dear crowd—

                  the empty bubbles winking at me

                  from the brim of my glass.