Anyway, whatever. It’s effortless.
Effortless as taking a subway ride
down to the shylock merchant
Who claims he sells pool lights,
those hushed green ones above
the stick and you, a dreamt coalition
of heat and present tense action.
He threaded the place with lanterns,
each one genie lit so you can see
them burn during the day,
Through the dark windowpanes.
He said Americans don’t have mystery,
or some shit like that, and he gave me
the money from the back where a lounge
singer chants some egyptian spell,
taking the time to spread rice over
A chalk outline of some creature,
an abstract green filigree, something.
He says they are placed as the planets
are, and the last time I went he held
one against me, blue lighting my chin
up. There were too many for me
to appreciate.