I left my matchbox room
with a sudden need for sky—
its bright expanse affirms and obscures
on a park bench
among cracked continents of asphalt
and quivering pools of melted snow.
A miniature geography, overlooked
but not irrelevant.
sniffs at the parched bark of a tree
and howls an impatient song
to the bare branches, wagging
his crooked tail.
winks in the open sky
enacting transition and missing
Passengers might notice
a white speck of land, a souvenir
of last season.
the snow is worn away
sculpted by rays of resurrected sun
and dented by forgetful feet.
The ants are intimidated
by these icy canyons
but we crash through the diorama;
blind giants, tiny blind giants.