Dating Scene (last poem of the 30 days, one day late)

There is a box that I kept, cellophane

clear plastic sheet, blue exterior.

Inside, a brachiosaurus and water color

of the Hudson seen from Hastings-

on-Hudson. Where is the world you've

built--sapphire stones in groups,

dark seasoning on salads, apples

that break the silences of November.

I'm looking for a Jew, who speaks in

dialectics, whose hues range from green

to the browns around the pupiles, with

hair so curly it is its own forest

and she sings like glory-bound diaspora

like shapes and wavering trees or,

when June hits, dripping popsicles,

her power lies in electricity, her font

is Helvetica and the care she heaves

for the comeliness of things brings power

to this city, she is a glass building bridge

that frames an old post office

she is the camera, the typewriter,

the ribbon stretched across the park,

she slow motion, she is the tide,

she once was. I'm looking for a Jew,

a world to build; can you help with that.