Building rituals out of nothingness,
I’m sitting on a park bench, reading
Wallace Stevens on a sunny day
when the flashing shadow of a crow
darkens my library book.
Perfect, I think.
Where are the tigers? Where the red weather?
I am a drunken old sailor dreaming and asleep.
Where are they?
In the grudging light that asked for day
the mothers look around, covering their
startled babies’ ears. We pick and choose
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