Sunset in Minneapolis

Nowhere is there a higher percentage of Hawaiian shirts
than in the Minneapolis airport in August;
my, there's a relentless logic to this place.
I notice a housefrau in a zebra cape
that zips all the way up to her forehead.
Like everyone else she's watching me,
observing how everything I do is wrong,
but she's too twinkling Minnesota nice to ever say one word.
I want to know where they keep all the pies,
but there must be some law to hold such secrets in place,
at any rate, they are as silent on that
as on the sudden rain from the lakes
caught up in an Edward Hopper wind.

Things will always be clear if you wait long enough,
they seem to say, in their clean, discreet way,
and this tempest ended, to the kind of sunset
that only can end at sunrise, like some mirror
of opposition.

Only then did I see:
Birth creates its opposite, which rebirths its creator.
Love, for example, is the opposite of meaning,
and each creates the other endlessly.
My eyes created eyes, which then created me.
Or consciousness, formed out of its opposite, nature,
defines nature again, in unceasing play.
Out of the Phoenix comes the Dragon, which breathes its life away.

This ditty could go on and on.
From one becomes two, from two becomes one.
A little something to remember, in lieu of pies, from the Twin Cities.