THE MELTING POINT

Things are slipping away: the butterfingered eaves,
knife-thrower blind, loose daggers;
plates, mugs, and crystal punch bowls,
juggler-dropped, smash
on walks and porches left and right;
and the guttercoat edges give way underfoot.

All this has me on edge. The melting point
is an unbidden carnival
I wish we could bar from our streets.

Even if I could, were I an omnipotent
marshal or mayor, my words,
blunt facts an hour later,
would I will the water away? Say
I were an acrobat or master magician,
metamorphosis at my fingertips,
would I trade for trickleless roofs
and streets baked dry,
the sight of worlds at my feet, holes
where I might netlessly step
off into some mud-rich, moon-ensnaring
piece of sky?



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