Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Series of Development

Memento of the silver light, the dust barren
where the sleek newlyweds squat like petrified lava,
concealed in the landfill in Staten Island,
the nouveau dementia of thick gold and diamonds,
no, nothing arrogant but merely saying I have,
no, nothing divisive in the black-sequin attire,
obvious, like the long walkway up from the street,
its stem blossoming at the door with a gold knocker.
The seeded garbage has bubbled into a garden,
but no mystery in the island where the small businesses
spread out like tentacles each morning.
A lone gull migrating over an egg
caws in the fumes as the air leaks from its cauldron,
a slow dog on the highway who remembers the thunder.