out There
Mary Winters
one of these mornings -- a fool's
ordinary Tuesday in July -- it's
going to kill you: glare. Quickly,
neatly -- not a hair out of place,
without lifting a finger. Or perhaps
blind you in a second without even
thinking about it -- your whole life
passing in review (how you imagine
Hiroshima). Or maybe just settle for
lasering your feet to a cinder;
glare carromed off just-sitting-in
wait city skyscrapers, row after row
armored in chrome and silver-blue
mirrors top to Herculean bottom.
Glare oh-so cheerful, confident; in
league with the fresh day's outsize
sun striking deadly rays direct toward
tiny pedestrians' feeble souls --
laughing giants' evil game, you rant --
are there six suns now; did three
fourths of the city fall down last
night to encourage extra-brightness...
