I walk across the street, a busy city corridor where buses park and construction cranes loom.
A white plastic bag is tied to a tree like a large Christmas ornament, bulging into spiky shapes
Defined, I suppose, by empty food take-out boxes inside.
If it was Christmas morning, this large oddly shaped package would be
The source of elated mystery and eager expectation.
I walk with lowered head to examine the signs people have left at my feet.
I pick up a small circle, archetype of psychological unity.
When left to themselves with pencil and paper, schizophrenics draw circles to soothe themselves.
I sometimes do this too.
This round latex holds the sacred male life force, expended in an act of joy and release,
Left to bless my urban trail.
A block from home, on the beach, people leave signs of celebration.
Frail gossamer fragments inflate with wind and blow in abandon.
Some are clear, a watery mirror-like shape that I might gaze into and see a new world.
Some are white, contained on three sides.
When filled with gusty trade winds, they make a bulbous shape like an unattached head.
I give chase, and capture all I can reach, for I hear the fish would be just as charmed as I
And eat them to their death.