Sunday on the Piazza, Early April, Year of the Horse
by Jim Davis, Jr.
Lavender drapery, abandoned armoires from Rotterdam, Versailles,
caught in the roots of a river, mislaid in the wake of a police boat.
Gulls down now and then from the factory’s tin roof, carving
air, land in swells of an unseen current, known only by its surface
disturbance. Gulls in the vestigial tail, broadening shadow of sky
scrapers, meat packing plants come antique furniture purveyors,
as trees behave like synapses, whose seeds made the sideways trip
from Pottawattamie territory, moved in human patterns, patterns
of forgetting, reaching upward, nearing nothing, down to the swell
which is the current’s only note, supreme magnetism, unseen
careening over smooth stones. The boat shines its light on a body.