So Much, Gray

This is a hilltop story dedicated to you.
One height of myopic vision
While laying supine, you see

So much blue clearly
To be had. Drink it up. Lay
One on me. Tell me something

Any order of words sounding
Any vision imagined sublime
Like skyscrapers submerged

Any version of titanium sheaths asunder on thirty-fourth
Street under blue street trees. Snails scaling the empire eating
Supper super blue-green algae. Transit fish in suits swim to suburbs

To the 56th parallel. So much skyline in the way of a seaweed
Salad plate. Lay your eyes on the rooftop landscape
A simulation of tropical visions in manageable proportions

Laying claim to topical oceans
From the 78th floor sightless to the local
View. Tending fishbowl gardens

Brimming rims, the masterminds’ topiary hairpiece
Atop Kubla Khan’s stately dome, King Kong’s pleasure pool
Pet sharks and streetcars drop shadows on the

Sidewalk floor by degree
And the sun sets early
And the evening breezes…

Frequently. Wind tunnels kick. Pushing
Shoppers, non-stoppers, strollers, steamrollers
Downtown downstream.

So much view to be had
So many angles cut waves
So much to stain the heart

And scar the options:
Stares or elevate 34 seconds
50 six floors seventy eight scoreboards billboards

Lay up to sustain the game play one-handed,
One button, one shot, monochrome, monotone,
Open. Standing alone where floorboards leak through sealing so much gray.

Published by Lia Yaranon Hall

My name is Lalla. I was a 14th century poet in Kashmir and worshipped Lord Siva. I died and fell from an evergreen tree in the Pacific Northwest (47° 36? 36? N, 122° 19? 48? W). My Lolo found me in an ivy patch. I spent most of my formative years on the coast of the South China Sea spearing fish until I became a "vegetarian" (but we didn't call ourselves that in those days). Shortly after vowing ahimsa, I moved to New York, unironically, under the guise of "poet" so that I could perform aerial stunts and acrobatics for an underground circus called the.

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