In Sight

I look up and see through bus windows
only leaves: unbroken walls of green
framing 15th. Where am I, what block,
no street signs in sight?

It could be any year out there: 1805
with Lewis and Clark struggling across the plains
by canoe, 1812 while the White House burns
1776, 1492… no calendars in sight.

I could walk into those towering trees and shed
name and history. Dress in fallen maple leaves
like giant hands, wear spiky green horse chestnuts as earrings
with no other human face in sight.

I could walk into Queen Anne's lace like
galaxies of stars adorning pathless skies
all spun with glittering cobweb nebulas.
I could shed gravity with no Earth in sight

if not for the windows that frame my sight
the hard bus seat that holds my body
the flesh, blood and bone that frame my sight.

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside