The Eye Like a Strange Balloon Mounts Toward Infinity
We were going toward nothing all along. Honing the acoustics, heralding the instant shifts, horizontal to vertical, particle to plexus, morning to late, lunch to later yet, instant to over. Done to overdone. And all against a pet-shop cacophony, the roof withstanding its heavy snow load. So, winter. And still, ambition to otherwise and a forest of wishes. Meager the music floating over. The car in the driveway. In the P-lot, or curbside. A building overlooking an estuary, inspired by a lighthouse. Always asking. Has this this been built? Or is it all process? Molecular coherence, a dramatic canopy, cafeteria din, audacious design. Or humble. Saying, We ask only to be compared to the ant- erior cruciate ligament. So simple. So elegant. Animated detail, data from digital. But of course there is also longstanding evil. The spider speaking to the fly, Come in, come in. Overcoming timidity. Overlooking consequence. Finally ending with the future. Take comfort. You were going nowhere. You were not alone. You were one of a body curled on a beach. Near sleep on a balcony. The negative night in a small town or part of an urban abstraction. Looking up at the billboard hummingbird, its enormous beak. There’s a song that goes. . . And then the curtain drops.
From The Eye Like a Strange Balloon, Poems by Mary Jo Bang. Copyright © 2004 by Mary Jo Bang. Published by Grove/Atlantic. Appears with permission of the author and Grove/Atlantic.