Five Poems
39th Floor Aperture
there is the window and then there is
the window in German Fenster no
there is the window and then there is
window a or window the or das
yes there is the window that looks out
and there is the window that looks in
and then there is the window that is
carved in-between look up from the street
nothing but a fluorescent green look
out South perfect view of the Statue
lit from the east lit from the west fog
erased shadow hazed there is her green
oxidized and then there is the green
reflected in the cut outs fissures
off the black lacquered floors shim-coated
sheetrock which poses the visitor's
dilemma ignore the 31
foot high cube where concealed apertures
project violet and green or ignore
the Lady and Manhattan's Southern
empty tip try to combine window
a and window the and you might just
reach the inside of the microchip
the threshold of the haptic realm
high above Times Square's X the problem
shared by this city's tower tops lounge
or penthouse or office reception
look up look down look out look through look
there is the window and then there is
Achilles
These seats configured in broken Ls
trap a man at the bend. He twists
holds the pole above his neighbor's
head, slides between the standing
hour's briefcases, purses, iPod wires.
Q comes to a stop, the man's left
arm lets go of the filmy pole, fingers
graze the neighbor's wooly crown
but when and as he turns to say sorry
his neighbor nails him in the ankle.
[G]olden Circe Sips Her Coffee
It's true. In Astoria too. Though her Glamour
is old now, and the coffee no nectar but what
her new country, the country of her exile,
supposedly runs on. She has yet to unlock
its magic, though she has taken its colors—pink,
orange, and brown—as her own, and has found that when she
sits, as she does now, on this low alcove-formed step
with her golden retriever, for he is all that
remains of her wolves and hounds, the blue warriors
leave her be, even smile and some even stop
to chat while powder and toasted coconut stick
to their lips. Her retriever curls around her, paws
cupping the edge of the step, regardless of if
it is here at the precinct, or under the green
awning at Olympus Bagels, or at Key Foods,
on a riser devoid of plants. There's a routine
to it, to greet and keep the sun always on your
face, and late in the day she sorts through circulars
the magic images frozen in two simple
dimensions. If it's windy, the retriever shifts
a tier and presses his body, a paper weight
to calm the wind-flipped coupons. She'll coo Greek to him
and if you are lucky, she just might speak to you:
excuse me what time? Don't worry. If you have no
watch, approximate. She won't turn you into swine.
She'll bless you in the name of this god or that god,
they're all the same sun god in the end, signal, sign
with a papal gesture. The retriever will rise,
turn, and sprawl, fur matted, a bit mangy, his paws
dangling over the edge, tail raised like a fern.
/ Zeppelin /
There's a zeppelin above / Lady
Liberty, it turns / and turns as / if
tethered / to her torch. I texted this.
Okay / okay. I admit / it was
a blimp. / The difference? One's rigid.
Purgatory
station heat sticks
to the red bricks
gateway light out
calls into doubt
ENTRY or GO
EXIT or NO
station heat licks
the red red bricks
Matthew Hittinger is the author of the chapbooks Pear Slip (Spire Press, 2007) winner of the Spire 2006 Chapbook Award, Narcissus Resists (GOSS183/MiPOesias, 2009), and Platos de Sal (Seven Kitchens Press, 2009). His work has appeared in many journals and the anthologies Best New Poets 2005 and Ganymede Poets, One. Matthew lives and works in New York City.