Jan conn

The bull, the sheep, two white foxes
at the gates of the golden-orange spiral city.

Sky dark as cherries.
Doors open, doors close.
Between one tree and the next the bridge
sways with millions of leaf-cutting ants.
I bend down, catch snatches of dialogue.
On nearby islands, trees float, ablaze with red buds.

Emboldened, in my yellow scarf, I climb into a gondola. We circle
and circle the textured, sun-struck walls. Without enlightenment.
  Or rhapsody.
In the windows appear: a lizard, two quarreling spiders,
a luna moth preening in front of its mirror.
Spiral canals like nebulae, bursting with stars.

For this I have journeyed across mountains and plains,
broken-hearted, across green surging seas.
My gondola tilts. When I regain my footing
I’m inside a glass globe filled with white paper flakes.
The galaxy is shaking.