Every once in a while, especially at night,

in the time it takes to mourn deaths and letters, if I’m dreaming

of the theater or the Egyptian exhibit at the MET.

If I’m dressed in a sweater. If I’m tempted

to kiss the green on the side of the road.

Every once in a while, especially after flushing

the toilet, in the time it takes to make a lover

of the neighbor’s door, in the time it takes a little leaven

to leaven the whole lump, if the breeze can’t keep

a secret—at the lake, at the grocery store, at the church.

That’s when I watch from my window, America

riding a tricycle of ruin. And the schools

spill out her mouth. And the library

is closed. And the clouds are closed.