by Lisa Marie Popp
In some glassy jazz
the greatness of what might have been,
like the world was already shattered.
The band swims and dives deep,
touching another wave that drowns reeds,
jagged, on a city beach
at some clouded change of day.
Someone blows a horn
but there is no river
no manholes, no streets,
between pieces of broken
around which winds twist.
Trashes rattle, hum, crawl across
planes of vacant concrete of a city,
cold, as if it was already shattered.