Saturday, September 29, 2007


In the end, his mind wasn’t right,
if it ever was. It was clear,
as he put his jeweled soap to flight
from the city’s summer parks and piers

that he was no longer there
with the rest of us, that he was one
with the iridescent membranous air
his wire wands stole from the sun,

the huge, oscillating spheres
in which a hundred others milled,
the tetrahedra stacked in tiers
until the twisted columns spilled

their remnant droplets to his feet.
He was perennial, a fixture,
his nest of wands, pans, discreet
tip jar, his secret mixtures

jugged, marked with painted runes,
but he imperceptibly became
as sheer as his diaphanous balloons.
We didn’t even know his name,

still less where he might live, or how,
what kind of life his small and few
contributions would allow.
He charmed us, that was all we knew;

we were blinded by his art.
An ephemeral phenomenon,
he drew the music of his heart
in films of air. Then he was gone.


Debi said...

This is beautiful. Are you going to tell us who the inspiration was?

Absolute Vanilla (and Atyllah) said...

Oh, lovely. Now I'm going outside to blow bubbles and set them free to the wind.

John said...

It was a dream, Debi, in which he popped like a bubble out of existence, leaving only a small puddle, but that looked too hokey on the page.

Be careful, Abs. It's addictive.

Minx said...

I tried leaving a comment this morning but your word verification had popped out of existence (no puddle though).

Addictive? Absolutely. I have one of those bubble makers that makes bubbles six feet long (of course I do). Like these....

Big Bubbles

Blowing bubbles on a frosty day is also cool - they freeze!

John said...

Blogger never runs out of tricks, does it?

I should have known (and I think I did know) that you were an avid bubbler, Kate. My only experience is with bubbles of smoke...

Debi said...

I dribble occasionally. Does that count?