poems as hand- and foot-holds on a glass mountain

Is This Easter?

We sit together talking quietly
on a bench in a crowded mall
while around us a strange wild city
grows ever stranger
fans its thousand pages at us
showing off, not for us but for itself
it needs an audience it doesn’t think it needs
but wants anyway, wants the free gifts
of our reactions it sorts through
like a salad, picking out its few favorites
discarding the rest almost without notice

that we react is enough, shows the city it exists
a proof it doesn’t yet know it needs
our indifference or even disapproval
work even better than applause
when existence is uncertain
“Is this Easter?” one stranger asks another
sharing a blank look

“Almost,” we say. As always,
we would have said into any curiosity,
it starts in time and place
but sheds them until it has no outside.
Although they hadn’t asked us
blank looks are openings.
“But soon. It’s still too close to see.”

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