Gardens, more glitter than greenery. South Street sermon
of wishes made, coins tossed into the chromium chasm.
Hallowed be the absinthe-tinted bottles, bicycle wheels
unmoving and tile trails, each piece a mosaicked religion
we worship with wonder in our eyes. A found poem
written on the red brick bookends of a city block—
each verse a bible insert. Look up, there’s so much
to see. A ceramic archway here, steep staircase there.
When draped in a stained glass glow, I bet astronauts
can see it from space, write love poems to its twilight
truths. A recycled canvas of disco balls glimmers around
every corner and nude humans, in their paintings, dance.
Pray the light touches you the same way. Labyrinthine
cathedral of surprise mirrors the broken and salvaged
in collaged chorus. Yes, to the magic, whenever you can
find it. If you can’t, you’re not looking hard enough.
Erica Abbott (she/her) is a Philadelphia-based poet and writer whose work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Kissing Dynamite, Midway Journal, Serotonin, Anti-Heroin Chic, and other journals. She is the author of Self-Portrait as a Sinking Ship, a Best of the Net nominee, and volunteers for Button Poetry, Kissing Dynamite, and Mad Poets Society. Follow her on Instagram @poetry_erica and on Twitter @erica_abbott.