Mr. Merritt Lake and Snow Park
The big wet lake sprawled out down there
and I tried to think of what it looked like
but all it looked like, besides water,
was falling, well-lit glitter.
What kind of a metaphor is that?
And then today when you said a word that I had recently read,
and later the television said it also,
I, discerning as I am, became suspicious and absent,
took my commute downtown and back up to the fourteenth floor
unwilling to respond to the glare off the chrome,
one color against another.
But standing again by the glass wall of a window,
the sunlight feeling very much like sunlight,
warm and aching and bright,
I saw that someone must be tossing white cracker crumbs
to the dappled pigeons in the park,
that the skyscrapers have been here just as long as anything else.