Greg Glazner reads
A Fine, Clean Gloss
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So: the synthesizer’s solo is a Valium for the backed-up road on Monday morning, heat already visible and the sky already gone, motorcyclists gliding at fifty miles an hour between stalled cars, the hair blown free from their shoulders, and a crow, lowflying, turning east below the sun, the sheen rejected off its back like mercury, spilling into the concrete reservoir of waterstriders standing on nothing but the shine, such a fortune of surfaces, such painless glazings on the air. What else but a fine, clean gloss could carry you through the week as it sears you free of features—the little family, smiling, framed in silver beyond the horror of an office telephone, still farther on the 4th Street mailboxes, the lawns this spring growing irreproachable as artificial turf, and the horizon of antennas, where you can almost see yourself released like newsprint burned to ash into Friday’s violet tiredness, refined of every striving but the need to glide.