The East Village

Paul Grady


 A poem is a mixture
 of light and dark
 pointillistic strophes
 in several savory colors,
 not unlike a meatloaf
 on holiday on the Costa Brava
 with its straps down,
 its headlights pressing firmly
 into the sand (or almost
 since it is mediated by 
 the thinnest of beach blankets),
 but still these colors press on,
 despite their limited palate,
 because they know that each one
 is an overlay, one which includes
 a yellow and a blue (suppressed 
 in the best of meatloaves),
 and which can make a rainbowl full of
 colores, ones which generate heat,
 causing us all to lay back
 for another perspective
 while we shade our words carefully
 to prevent the premature discharge
 of heat or light.