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Wright (10)

Kirby Wright

At the Stanford Park

The sun detonates the end of August.
Date palms explode the sky.
A boy with breasts backstrokes the pool.
Waves slap the greasy tiles, spray Futurestone.
A dove sips from a crack.
Speedo man sweats jumping jacks.
Marigolds wilt in courtyard boxes.
A forest blooms beyond the flowers.
Bikini hands lotion legs and shoulders.
She is Venus with lavender toenails.
A jet cuts the blue–the sun weakens.
Women study Venus through tinted glasses.
Men contemplate the silicon climate.
A wasp lands on my towel.
Newspapers and cloth slippers cover the ground.
A New York husband leaves his Boston wife.
He heads east, chasing yellow light.
A wedding balloon floats to the moon.
The ice plant closes its blossoms.
A breeze stirs a cyclone fence choked with ivy.
Behind the fence, a forest woman suckles her baby.
Giant oaks shadow us all.

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