Blue Window
James Meetze

You are an arc of light in sycamore（美国梧桐） leaves,
 churned-up dust, the sun's disturbance¹,
 beside workers and workday traffic.

Bronze light in every space we inhabit.

This big sky we are under,
 a portal without law.
 Even poetry can't sample it.

It goes round rosy², always in motion,
 like weather's coliseum（竞技场） lights.
 

*

One cloud changes the whole feel/field of things.
 Afternoon indoor fluorescence（荧光） , that silky envelope,
 just a corner of blue window to see.

Pillars of smoke in our toxic³ and inefficient⁴ world,
 smaller than it seems to be.

Outside, sounds approach like a shudder⁵
 without fantasy, a signal that we must go on
 in fuzzy cubicles⁶（小卧室，小隔间） , a fraction of private space.

Light's decoy registers, safe in anybody's arms.
 

*

The brightness doesn't end here.
 The filters don't stop it from coming through.
 Particles invisible. Blue or gray day.

It is the way shrinking/rising things
 can't be made dire⁷ enough.
 I like your smile, I'd like to see it live on forever.

A line of cars and cars from here to vanishing-point's brown.

We cannot say sun, or sunlight, terminus,
 stop where you see a sign.