Sequence

What does that brick mean?

Now that one?

And now the sidewalk

full of them,

weeds and grass

coming through the gaps,

the next stretch clear,

the pattern:

one brick blocking my path,

the next pointing the way.

What does that brick-shaped

patch of unbounded sky mean?

And now that next patch

of sky blue,

unshaped,

unsegmented,

not-brick,
and then the one after the next,
stretching to the horizon -

what does it mean?

And now I walk on concrete.

What does this crossing line mean?

And the next?

And the next?

And the next?

I will end this inconsequence,

except for one more.

A man sleeps on the next bench over.

A boy plays in the fountain,

the front of his pants and shirt soaked,

his hands feeling the motion

and the waterness

of the water.

And I sit, here,

scribbling

in the shade.

What do I mean?