You could see them from the sidewalk,
White jellyfish come from somewhere East,
Wind-ripped at the tops like old sailors’ hair in a gale,
Their cotton bottoms bloated with purple turbulence.
Light chains linked them, elegance in white
Disclosing some organic brotherhood,
A fuse of hot and cold, a sharing unshared
By those who have no relevance or strength to match.
We feared they’d snatch and drop us from their
Wells some place from where there’s no coming home.
You could see them bottom to top, their ice-flow
Width and slow imminence, as if some piece of the South Pole
Had cracked away and ascended to some height
Where the gods cough ice-crystals and pick their teeth with trees.
You’d hear the thunder, like the muttered but fierce talk
Of revolution in cantinas.
All the sky collected in one front of air, moving closer
But not moving closer closer
On the sidewalks we’d watch wait
The mulberry branches would turn; they’d
Wave us away as if they knew better, knew
Something of the power of slowness, size.
I remember running toward home as if some invasion
Were at hand, black drops slapping at the tips of my shoes.
