A pair of framed pictures
lurks on the bathroom walls,
a shred of elegance
in the room least likely
to feature impressive feats
of human endeavor.
The Brooklyn Bridge
pulls the eye into the distance,
a horizon of human making,
steel swags poking cloud,
a span of exhalation, ether-bound
under a lowering sky.
Cloud Gate leads an urban tour
of fun-house mirrors in Millennium Park,
Chicago. Bodies disappear
in its spectral torso, then
reappear in clown-like dispersal
of parts—head, limbs, fruitlike
faces contorting below
Michigan Avenue granite.
A porcelain meditation —
in and out, Bridge and Bean,
heaven and earth and
everything in between.