which it is

we come from these blessings, crashing to the floor.
As obvious as pinwheels with that extra rush of taxes.
Idiots revolt in the spark; the tree veers into the lapse
And we're aggregated to the aggrieved, according to
Portents in my sandwich spread. I've been standing here
On this virgin log for a quarter of the buzzard's lifetime
Eating forgiveness like it's going out of style which it is.
The worst thing the nuns did was give humility a bad name.
Earnings are down so you don't count. Arrivals bleed
Into departure faces, and franchise fortunes
Blot out the sun. Evenness is unevenly apportioned.
Light bounds over the pickup truck. Astonished stains
Collide in fragrant number. She's been here an hour already
And there's nothing to tell her. The stars with their gold backpacks
Are straining against the sky.


4/01