A mood comes on lateness
of sunlight lingering in planes
across the yard and ditch bank.
A quiet effect of almost voices
like a schizophrenia of whispers
mouthed by shrugging clouds.
The past elbows into pure stupefaction...
I have walked the streets of Little Rock.
There have been fewer things more surreal
than Little Rock people on arcane missions,
going into financial buildings or just clustering
on corners of South Broadway after the bridge.
Their eyes were marbles tumbling from the bag
of time for shooting glances of incurious colors.
So long ago yet they can be seen on sidewalks
of memory, sidewalks of my purest dislocation
and of their visceral bodies weighted and moving.
I swear it -- there are fewer things more surreal.
But it does no good to unwrap the boxes
inside boxes inside boxes of anywhereness.
If we were meant to know meanings of eyes
and missions, some god would have been real,
whispered a much louder and more persuasive
angle of light, a more trenchant schizophrenia.