A good place to hide a drop of water is a stream. A good place to hide a stream is beneath an ocean.
A good place to hide a man is among thousands of men. Watch how they rush through the city like water through a ravine.
I've searched many famous cities for you. There are three listings for "Bruce Wayne" in Houston, two in Pittsburgh, one in Miami, and one in LA.
In Tampa, Bruce Wayne is a retired chemistry teacher. In Flagstaff, he drives a taxi and hopes to procure a diamond for his soon-to-be fiancée.
A good place to hide a star is a galaxy. A good place to hide a galaxy is a universe. Look at the night sky. Justice
used to be a cowl and cape, the flicker of wings under an etiolated moon. And you, like a gargoyle, crouched atop some stone edifice.
To conceal a universe, place it in a multiverse—that hypothetical klatch of alternate realities. The dilemma of the word
alternate is how it implies a norm, a progenitor stream from which the alternate diverges. Which is the alternate? Which is right here, right now? There is no such thing
as Gotham City, but here is Gotham City and I've been so naïve: believing the truth of the old mythologies. How they promised a recognizable villain, a clown with a ruby-slashed mouth, a lunatic's laugh.
In the universe where I exist, supervillains look like everyone else. Give them an old flannel to wear and a square jawline to smile at the world.
They're hanging a noose in a middle school bathroom. They're shouting, Get out of my country, from the window of a passing car. They're pulling a pistol in a crowded barroom, or bus stop, or the middle of the street. They could be anyone. They could be everywhere.
A good place to hide a sociopath is a full-length mirror. A good place to hide that mirror is the heart of America.
In the battle of Good versus Evil, I was so sure Good would win. Now I just hope something Good will survive, get a job cutting hair or selling cars, make it home for dinner.
I suspect there's a parallel dimension where you, Vigilante, long for this as well. To have a normal life is victory enough. To remain anonymous and not be spat upon on the subway.
In Boston, Bruce Wayne owns a pawn shop. In Milwaukee, he plays pinochle and feeds stray cats. In New Hampshire, he goes fly-fishing on the Sugar River, reels in one brook trout after another.
When he removes the hook from a mouth, he might place the fish in a cooler. Or, he might set it back into a stream— the alternate or the original—no longer certain in which he stands.
Join Poetry Daily Editorial Board member Brian Teare for more poetry and conversation about ecopoetics with our second intenational panel of authors and activists.
"A student poetry competition in China has become an unexpected outlet for public frustration over social issues that have roiled the country in the past few months....At a time when the space for debate in China has shrunk as authorities ramp up efforts to curtail criticism of government policies, the student writers have been hailed for their boldness."
"Language and nature are an ancient binomial that has reinforced the physicality between the world we inhabit and how we inhabit naming it. The power of the bird is not only its chirp and trill, but the richness of its name which alters our lips in pronouncing it: albatross, kestrel, blackbird, screech owl, flycatcher, vireo, thrush, golden tanager."
