On certain May mornings
edged with creamy pink blooms
a membrane thins
in the north-bound lane of Ravenna Avenue

and one enters a Saturday Evening Post
short story, circa 1961. At the next corner
a woman may be kissing
the man in a Hathaway shirt,

but this block is entirely exposition,
no conflict or complication in sight,
just peonies, wisteria arbors
and colonial façades

with invitations in each mailbox
to the beach club dance.
The illusion lasts a block and a half
at best, from the line of feathery ash trees

to the first glimpse of dumpsters
behind Goodwill. Long enough
to surrender completely to the vigorous
birdsong and turquoise sky,

some trick of light and landscape
that eases a tightness in the heart.
If it's cruel to pass in and out
of a May crafted wholly of desire—

a mirage of swans, canoes,
and paper lanterns, a trailing silk scarf—
at least the mind is quelled
as it revisits all five senses

and its love affair with the world,
before turning onto Lake City West
and the everyday business
of errands and regret.

Volume 1, Issue 1, 2006