Blue Window

　　James Meetze

　　You are an arc of light in sycamore(美國(guó)梧桐) leaves,

　　churned-up dust, the sun's disturbance,

　　beside workers and workday traffic.

　　Bronze light in every space we inhabit.

　　This big sky we are under,

　　a portal without law.

　　Even poetry can't sample it.

　　It goes round rosy, always in motion,

　　like weather's coliseum(競(jìng)技場(chǎng)) lights.

　　*

　　One cloud changes the whole feel/field of things.

　　Afternoon indoor fluorescence(熒光) , that silky envelope,

　　just a corner of blue window to see.

　　Pillars of smoke in our toxic and inefficient world,

　　smaller than it seems to be.

　　Outside, sounds approach like a shudder

　　without fantasy, a signal that we must go on

　　in fuzzy cubicles(小臥室，小隔間) , a fraction of private space.

　　Light's decoy registers, safe in anybody's arms.

　　*

　　The brightness doesn't end here.

　　The filters don't stop it from coming through.

　　Particles invisible. Blue or gray day.

　　It is the way shrinking/rising things

　　can't be made dire enough.

　　I like your smile, I'd like to see it live on forever.

　　A line of cars and cars from here to vanishing-point's brown.

　　We cannot say sun, or sunlight, terminus,

　　stop where you see a sign.