Five Poems

 

39th Floor Aperture

there is the window and then there is

the window in German Fenster no

there is the window and then there is

window a or window the or das

yes there is the window that looks out

and there is the window that looks in

and then there is the window that is

carved in-between look up from the street

nothing but a fluorescent green look

out South perfect view of the Statue

lit from the east lit from the west fog

erased shadow hazed there is her green

oxidized and then there is the green

reflected in the cut outs fissures

off the black lacquered floors shim-coated

sheetrock which poses the visitor's

dilemma ignore the 31

foot high cube where concealed apertures

project violet and green or ignore

the Lady and Manhattan's Southern

empty tip try to combine window

a and window the and you might just

reach the inside of the microchip

the threshold of the haptic realm

high above Times Square's X the problem

shared by this city's tower tops lounge

or penthouse or office reception

look up look down look out look through look

there is the window and then there is

 

 

 

Achilles


These seats configured in broken Ls
trap a man at the bend.  He twists
holds the pole above his neighbor's
head, slides between the standing
hour's briefcases, purses, iPod wires.

Q comes to a stop, the man's left
arm lets go of the filmy pole, fingers
graze the neighbor's wooly crown
but when and as he turns to say sorry
his neighbor nails him in the ankle.

 

 

 

[G]olden Circe Sips Her Coffee

 

It's true.  In Astoria too.  Though her Glamour

is old now, and the coffee no nectar but what

her new country, the country of her exile,

supposedly runs on.  She has yet to unlock

its magic, though she has taken its colors—pink,

orange, and brown—as her own, and has found that when she

sits, as she does now, on this low alcove-formed step

with her golden retriever, for he is all that

remains of her wolves and hounds, the blue warriors

leave her be, even smile and some even stop

to chat while powder and toasted coconut stick

to their lips.  Her retriever curls around her, paws

cupping the edge of the step, regardless of if

it is here at the precinct, or under the green

awning at Olympus Bagels, or at Key Foods,

on a riser devoid of plants.  There's a routine

to it, to greet and keep the sun always on your

face, and late in the day she sorts through circulars

the magic images frozen in two simple

dimensions.  If it's windy, the retriever shifts

a tier and presses his body, a paper weight

to calm the wind-flipped coupons.  She'll coo Greek to him

and if you are lucky, she just might speak to you:

excuse me what time?  Don't worry.  If you have no

watch, approximate.  She won't turn you into swine.

She'll bless you in the name of this god or that god,

they're all the same sun god in the end, signal, sign

with a papal gesture.  The retriever will rise,

turn, and sprawl, fur matted, a bit mangy, his paws

dangling over the edge, tail raised like a fern.

 

 

 

/ Zeppelin /

 

There's a zeppelin above / Lady

Liberty, it turns / and turns as / if

tethered / to her torch.  I texted this.

Okay / okay.  I admit / it was

a blimp. / The difference?  One's rigid.

 

 

 

Purgatory

 

station heat sticks

to the red bricks

 

gateway light out

calls into doubt

 

ENTRY or GO

EXIT or NO

 

station heat licks

the red red bricks

 

 

 

Matthew Hittinger is the author of the chapbooks Pear Slip (Spire Press, 2007) winner of the Spire 2006 Chapbook Award, Narcissus Resists (GOSS183/MiPOesias, 2009), and Platos de Sal (Seven Kitchens Press, 2009).  His work has appeared in many journals and the anthologies Best New Poets 2005 and Ganymede Poets, One.  Matthew lives and works in New York City.