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.