Can you believe we are a quarter of the way through our year of Fridays? It all rushes… So let’s light up again with images of Ferris Wheels, anemones and golden eagles, all seen through the eyes of Friday night!
Far enough from the sun
to come to no harm
this golden eagle
is etched on the zenith
like a rare doubloon.
Gulls circle and drop
into the river
but it does not alter
the loft of his glide:
leagues above us.
Upon our passing
his reflection will pour
into the wake
with the same lethargy
we have for leaving.
this god of light will break
free of the thermal
allow a fish to extinguish
the fire of his wings.
I have been reading about hair wreaths and how
the strands were wound around wire to give shape to
loss which they seemed to prefer in circles they
could come back to like that other Victorian
thrill: the Ferris Wheel making its play
with gravity, the farm boys going higher
than the next county, none of them went farther
than their own land which they tended in and out
of seasons, all of it a cycle I have
not missed, living next to a highway and far
from country doctors and Dickensian parsons
though I would live in such a book if you were
mine there, sinecured like a cat in the front window.