Standing In A Field
It’s Sunday night and I’m out for a walk.
The field I’m standing in is soon to become
luxury townhouses, or so I hear. It’s weird
standing here, just knowing. I imagine
that if I stand here long enough perhaps
I will become a barely visible part
of a house yet to be built. Maybe
the living room. Perhaps one evening
a couple will be entertaining, and they will look up
and see me, ill-defined, standing before the fireplace.
At first it will scare them—is their house haunted?
Have they had too much to drink? But after they
put their hands through my body, see that I am only an image,
the whole thing will become funny, a novelty.
Maybe later in the evening they will throw darts through me.
I wonder if I flew a kite here, sometime after midnight,
if that kite would become part of the second floor.
Maybe the master bedroom. Late at night a man and woman
will be making love. She will be kissing his ear,
her hand on the back of his neck. His hand gripping
her side. The will look up and see,
my blue kite, rippling silently in the darkness.
The sweat will dry on their bodies,
and they will stare at the kite for a long time,
until they are convinced it is only a manifestation
of their love. He will dip his mouth to her breast
and she will smile, feeling content to believe
in the impossible.