As If Anybody Still Looks Up
It looks as if
Raphael reached out from Rome
to dab a brush thick with pigment
on the blue over Oakland,
molding cloud solid as earth,
for some archangel to step out on.
Bright air blesses sidewalks and
rows of storefronts like bad teeth;
come evening, it spangles vacant windows,
gilds scrap yard, mall, the failing elementary,
finds rat trash, paraphernalia. Glory
wafting through power lines on lifeless trees.
In the gutter diamonds go to gold,
as if smashed glass
still has the heart for reflection.
Under that sky,
in a house that leans on its porch,
a woman with no urge to look outside
sits in a darkening room watching
reruns of memories and wishing to heaven
for a tv that works.