ARBUS
David Feinstein
Despite the radio reports, we’ve gotten out
And breathing, almost, supped towards noon.
Or further, for that matter, considering the terrain.
Plush as carpet, walled in by the necessary backdrop of trees.
Overhead, an airplane chalks up the sky.
As it passes you can hear something grind then, obliquely, roulette.
The same, of course, goes for the eyelids.
Mannequin white and, behind them, the station’s scrambled frequency.
Through this, inevitably, there aligns some continental thought. The pastels clouding the coast, for instance, at sunset.
In the meantime, the stocks tumble forth with local weather.
Even the birds, unseen, sound like appliances.
Similarly, what the boy manipulates, hovering about the edge
Of the plastic miniature pool he no longer fits into, can only dip his feet.