The Low Crumble of Distant Applause
In this new house we’re visited regularly by giants.
Some explanation. The giants, for one, are very small.
At least that is how they appear to us—so close to the sky,
etched against blue folded into clouds. And by visit
I mean, of course, watched over. But it can feel like
a visitation when, for instance, you are standing
on the red deck high above the lawn waking up,
and your new haircut flutters in the breeze.
From inside the kitchen, standing above greasy water,
I look through the screen and see you—frightening
in your precisely defined beauty, your white shirt
a sail catching and flinging back the sun and wind,
through this window screen, through the thin bone of
my forehead. And through the mile of heavy air
above us where the miniature people eating peanuts
look down and feel glad because of a fleck of light
against the red and green and do not even know
why. I know why.