Tadeo Ando’s concrete lines
hide; slide into the landscaped green
pointed to by the faux river.
Light and stone adorn its shallow
bed as it runs, downhill, Midtown,
from cars and traffic-signals down
to green and trees, designer leaves
and grasses; curves away, a smile,
in the landscape that is hiding
and revealing critical lines.
Lines that swoop or soar, depending
on my mood; concrete that sits, not
awaiting or rejecting, but
showing off intriguing content
to anyone bold enough to
activate its sliding glass and
dip down into its dark and light;
where the heart is satisfied by
the at once new and déjà-vu,
acknowledgment of forgotten,
yet unknown future, balanced, a
seesaw on the tip of my tongue.