Kirby Olson
Highline Park in NYC
It curved industriously along a path.
It was the culmination of Christo
& environmental art à la Smithson;
yet was also iron rails and boxy bldgs.
The Hudson River was a sheen of glass.
As I walked my hands froze. I
learned of poet H.L. Van Brunt’s death.
As we walked I thought of my mentor’s last breath.
I compared his regional poems of Okies,
to Jean Nouvel’s wacky 11th Ave. building.
The grass was sere and daffodils dead.
I saw traffic on the sts. and aves.
The red glitter of brake lights.
Oh the oceans of pedestrians!
Regionalism versus postmodernism!
Brunt lived alone and without family.
I went for spaghetti with mine in Little Italy.
Other work by Kirby Olson