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.