Air-freshener
The familiar, unearthly
scent of Bayside Breeze.
On the freeway, bent
along its axis, I do
as ghosts do: wait
and stare. Acres of still
corn. Slow-smelling
night. Across the ocean
he lies in hospital.
He might as well be
dead. This far from
the side of any bay,
I measure sweetness
by its incongruity.
I leave you at your work
The big windows fill
with flurry upon
flurry of the same
small stuff. The flecked
grain of an old
movie. Cars steam like
cattle. The coffee
machine thrums. The
world clarifes itself
the way a latent image
comes through, off-white
at first against
the milky surface
of smooth emulsion-
coated paper.
Nothing can both
be and not be. But
certain things are
true. I am. You are.
Yesterday was.
Today the windows
fill with flurry
upon flurry of
the same small stuff.
Will Harris is the author of a chapbook of poems, All this is implied, and an essay, Mixed-Race Superman.