What would it take to be invited and if we were so
blessed, would the invitation be embossed in jewel
colors, the lettering slick to touch, tasting of cinnamon
coffee, sealed with the image of a hawk, ruby red?
. . .
We would wear school-girl uniforms, green and blue
pleated skirts, wool even in the flush of summer
in Southeast Europe almost to Africa. Pressed
together in the streets, sweat pouring from our eyes
. . .
as we follow with telescopic lens the golden statue,
halo of stars, blue train whipping as she ascends
just above our heads, eyes skyward
though we imagine her glancing down.
. . .
Once more each August, in Madagascar, Croatia
East Timor, Cyprus, Poland, New Brunswick, Haiti
(in New York, parking is free — the streets in reclamation)
we are suspended in this hallowed time, even the uninitiated.
