For a little snow you get your asking price:
the Ace of Wounds, star of tubs, brushfires
from there to here like an afterthought,

and this suddenly not all that you willed it to be.
We marched in different directions.
Once a week there’s a very big field day.

Plant two skyscrapers. Then the moat will be less
unexpected. It’s coming round to you again;
indeed, it dances. And in this starting to be something

something disappears, but a shine prevails.
And they don’t pay attention,
and they don’t pay attention, that’s all I can say.

See what the prisoners of war are all about.
How close are you? Rocks seep into the night
and the clay gets the attention it deserves.

We build and build our shadow-pulpit,
then seize morning when it comes,
in chirrupy stride: names of the lost ships,

lasting until today, until nostalgia sets in. We’re home
in what passes for a city in America (are the streets

laughing at us?). We can’t drive yet,
or even walk.
And one is given the run of the land.

This Issue

April 23, 1998