November 19

Again the dockyards, again,
so much space

in this sky, this air,
it’s getting intolerable:

Nothing weighs on me
like nothing

By the museum
on the south shore

an art installation,
a small house filled

with a snarl of branches,
meaning, I guess,

that the facade we build
is still an extension

of our true nature,
or something about

the impermenance
of shelter,

but then again
I’m usually too

literal in my
interpretations

But further down
on Mercer, two giant heads

built from enameled iron,
characters and symbols

wrought from multiple
languages, two lacy

craniums, and you can
go inside them,

confront another
hollow place:

Words do not suffice,
not even here, so full

of holes that you
could slip right through–

OPTIONAL POETRY