Art in the Park

Prairie Fire - - KIM GOLDBERG -

When the full moon falls from the sky

and the world goes dark, we do not see

the heron built from car parts lift off

from its dis­play by the hot dog wagon to im­pale

the bright moon on its crank­shaft bill, caus­ing

the moon to de­flate as the light seeps out,

or the ship made of twigs that sets sail

and catches the dishrag moon in its loose-knit

bow, or the wooden crab the size of a

Guernsey cow that seizes the black­ness to scrabble

to­ward the crab dock and re­lease the con­victs

in the traps be­neath, or the havoc this wreaks

for nearby con­do­mini­ums, which quickly fill up

with crus­taceans on the lam, or the con­se­quences

this will have on the world bank­ing and in­ter­est rates

as the mort­gage-pay­ing pop­u­la­tion is in­creas­ingly

pushed onto the streets by arthro­pods who like

dry mar­ti­nis and big screen TV. As we pull

our sleep­ing bags tighter in our sandy beds

be­neath the high­way next to the sewer outfall,

we will never sus­pect that pub­lic art

was the cause. We will sim­ply, in our ig­no­rance

and su­per­sti­tion and aching need to find

a larger or­ga­niz­ing prin­ci­ple in the Uni­verse,

tell ourselves that the gods were against us, we’ve come

to the end of our line, it’s time to kill the ba­bies

and let the au­di­ence go home.

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