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Real Estate

ISSUE:  Spring 2012

Out from attic windows of the eyes again
I can see someone’s blowing bubbles
on the lawn.

Young couple selling the neighbor house cheap,
a boy claiming what he can, launching
his globed

cells of soap and light for home. A mother
calls to the child, father tape measures
the foundation. Magnolia’s still wintering

above the fence rot with viburnum
buds far yet in the branch,
and the kid’s not

following. He’s staring and staring or just
tired already from the long drive
ahead, gaze caught on the morning

glory’s twisted vines, the ones that clutch
a puce mold railing these owners
will not come back for. Fast sale. Mortgage

forfeit, manager fired. And a boy gone
glassy as if to stare the bargain down,
barreling his black-brown irises

at what’s real, this drift
and lacuna slip between
toy and world, house and highway, thumbprint

on a sky slicked picture window, wide
galactic swirl. Go, say the eyes.
Snag, little soap curve

disbegot of glass. Together we watch
the bubble lift, the transparent
rising eye, his pupil-fused crystal ball,

climbing the light breeze up and over
the yard’s border nation
of hemlock and hair trigger needles. What are we

supposed to do next
in the game called
displacement, nearing

the forest, market forces,
bubble made from two
kinds of luck about to break

west, curved
and wet, about to be wasted? In rain
we trust,

unradiated. Groundcover. Clover
sprawl. Underside,
veins of a leaf

lined as a mouth,
green and curved,
for the air it has to eat.


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