By David Wyatt
At a window table I take note
of the Congregational church
across the street, its spire
having split a cloud in two.
It's noon. The lunch crowd
talks of this and thatthe evening
ahead with its suite of oboes,
the risk, the morning paper said,
in blowing one's nose: germs
back up instead of out. The church
looks like a mound of chalk
in midday light, capable
of making its mark on the sky.
Then a bee is climbing the window,
as if transparency
is a common mountain.
At a certain height, it flies off,
lands on a table next to mine
where two men, dismissing wings,
sweet numbers scattered
on their plates, wrap up a discussion
of portfolios. I take one more
sip of coffee as I get up, which the bee
accepts by disappearing. Jacket
in hand, I walk outside, knowing
somehow the thing is with me.
And indeed, like the sun from a
church fanlight, it springs from the lining.