Town.

– Sandra Marchetti –

Town is a place we never knew before.
Walking by windows higher than us,
Tiffany lamps shine beside the corners of our eyes.

Light slides from the bookstore’s bank of glass
and the shivering Christmas wires, lifting off their canopies,
impose new lumen on already bright trees.

Trees are shelved with books, too. Our gaze
layers and reverses through glass: a spice shop pressed in
brambles, jewelers’ cases, a lit doorway.

Sidewalks fall into light, then gather dark pools.
Headlights and streetlights gleam the same Sirius
color, riding windows in stop-motion.

Inside the panes, where heat presses, we see
how crowded we’ve become: lights and drop
ceilings reach over the stars and take territory.

Warm signs glow, reflected above the escalators.
The electric stairs move legs up the narrow street:
through lamplight and braking cars,
past the library toward the next sky.