Alone at night
in the wet city
 
the country’s wit
is not memorable.
 
The wind has blown
all the trees down
 
but these anxieties
remain erect, being
 
the heart’s deliberate
chambers of hurt
 
and fear whether
from a green apartment
 
seeming diamonds or
from an airliner
 
seeming fields. It’s
not simple or tidy
 
though in rows of
rows and numbered;
 
the literal drifts
colorfully and
 
the hair is combed
with bridges, all
 
compromises leap
to stardom and lights.
 
If alone I am
able to love it,
 
the serious voices,
the panic of jobs,
 
it is sweet to me.
Far from burgeoning
 
verdure, the hard way
in this street.

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