They put bedroom furniture
in the bathroom here.
And there’s a group of women
praying together in public space,
yanking doctrine from shared experience,
a holy racket, so I think I’ll just
stay in here for a pretty long time,
further this life by stunning
my own voice in noticing,
for the first time, an urgency of spirit.
Soap operas are failing in America.
But this is still a good place to invent
a better pony, no draconian clampdown
on fingernail biting yet, odds-making
on the world’s future mood still as big as divorce.
Right-wing in campaign year
throws a beach ball from the mild grins
of famous architecture, so 4 banjo-heavy
indie bands sprout up to counteract.
Life in the clutch is red. Is white. Is blue.
What a very adult thought,
how the glazed vapors of sex pleasure
sulk heavy in the bedrooms of desolate pairs,
how the underglow of the fresco reproduction
is starting to show, so we start calling it
Adoration of the Name of That One Guy,
how my brother, north and west of here 60 miles
last night, setting a bit to spin metal,
talked to me from the production floor
while everyone around us, it seemed,
was teaming up against the breaking calm.