Our Street In Endless Circles by Jenny Browne
The day makes a map of
disappearing, frenzied rumor of
hummingbird, between how we see and are
seen. Last night around the fire
a voice said, this
conversation only seems to be based in
reality. The day makes a map of
disappearing and the ants need a bridge
for carrying crumbs twice
their size. There are moments I
pretend I am popcorn swelling fourteen times my
original size and nobody ever looks
surprised. All I want is to watch an
old lady’s hand reach through the fence
for a fistful of rosemary, spice of
remembrance and wonder how far must
she carry it? How far must it carry
me? Now sputtering lines of
laughter arch from the neighbor’s
sprinkler as pairs of shiny brown
legs begin their pedal through then
back around our street in endless
circles. Someone looks up and says,
now that is summer. Someone looks and says, poor kids. Someone says faster, faster.
