Sharp Light (Tempe, Arizona)

     for Zayah

         Then forth they all out of their baskets drew

         Great store of flowers, the honour of the field,

         That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,

         All which upon those goodly birds they threw,

         And all the waves did strew,

         That like old Peneus' waters they did seem,

         When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore,

         Scattered with flowers, through Thessaly they stream,

         That they appear through lilies' plenteous store,

         Like a bride's chamber floor.

                        Edmund Spenser, Prothalamion

At three-thirty kids stream by after school lets out.  

Just as I look out the window, a little blonde 

Boy picks up an empty beer bottle and throws it 

Up and arching towards my yard, where it cracks and 

Splinters.  Our eyes meet when I yell “Now pick it up!”  

And, “Who taught you how to do that!”  He runs over 

Saying “Ok,” hunches down to the glass.  I hurry 

To grab a sack, then go out to him.  “Be careful 

Not to cut yourself,” I say, more kindness in my 

Voice, adding “Don’t throw bottles in my yard.” After, 

I bike past McKellips Lake to El Dorado 

Park Pond, sun hot on my skin, warm air flying by,  

Then west towards Papago Park.  Bougainvillea 

Flush red, Acacia trees’ golden orbed flowers, and

Hedgehogs’ Strawberry pink blooms.   Brittlebush yellow 

And orange Globemallow.  Cottontail, Jackrabbit

Starved thin, lopping around.  Quail call and run.  Towhee 

In sight’s margin.  Thrasher whistle most of all.  There,

Sparkling shards of glass refract sun’s sharp light.  At the 

Top of a hill two empty beer cans, a vacant 

Egg carton, a newly broken bottle.  Shocks of 

Light from flinders by millions sharpen air brown with 

Dusk.  Later, at home, there’s music out front, neighbors 

Drinking beer in our front yard.  “It’s good?” they ask.  “Sure, 

Just don’t leave your cans,” I say.  When there’s arguing 

And yelling something breaks.  I look out over a 

Dozen cans strewn and crumpled from house to street.  With 

Another sack I go out to pick them up.  The 

Neighbor says, “It’s good, it’s good” and leaves.  The other 

Says “Mañana, mañana.”  Their boy helps pick up 

The cans.  Glass from their broken car mirror litters 

Dark pavement reflecting bright Arizona moon.