Ofer Ziv
Impressionism
The deer was here again last night eating flowers
but all we saw was his behind—diving into the bush,
the entry closet to his world, as we rolled into the driveway.
There is no orange juice in the fridge, and I must walk
to town once more past the waterfall, past the neighbor’s dog
who sleepwalked again last night to find his buried bone.
The women by the creek aren’t washing clothes—
they sit in front of isles in morning light
white dresses and straw hats as if themselves a painting.
The joyous fireflies have turned their lamps off
and gone, perhaps some turn to buzzing flies
to pass the day, some leave their green flare to sun twinkles in water
and I hear there was a man, who flew in a balloon way up
and out the Troposphere, 90,000 feet high
until the sky turned white and the air stood still—and jumped
but felt he wasn’t falling
until the clouds breathed life on him,
and opened like matadors to let him through.
