Mark Bibbins

Brightening Elsewhere

They’ve hired skywriters
to compose clouds in a sky
off-color but clear; such
clever hats the chimneys

wear, so furiously they twirl.
                           Make that
face again and we’ll perfect
the picture. Really. Make

that face. Figure and gesture
refuse to engage: there’s only so
much one can do.
              Once I held a couplet

close—too close, in fact; it died—
this and other minor matters
refuse to disappear. An expat
I’ve become, except I am still here.